Incase you haven't figured it out, I've been running a new blog at http://milliondollarcuffs.org. It's been there for a few months now so if you're still waiting for posts on here you're AN IDIOT!!!

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Living Forever Is The Only Way You'll Know.

By Tm Bmb.

THE SKINNY.

Things To Do:

Create map of Red Tie project.
Create idea cloud for SLC YourUnderground.
Pro bono advertisements for local convenience store
New banners for Million Dollar Cuffs and H/O/W
Write H/O/W blog on CDIY story.

THE DIRT.

A lot of people pass by me these days and call me gay. They call me queer, or a faggot.
I don't know what it is about me. Maybe I dress too eccentrically.
Snipe explained that when you wear a suit, or dress proper, you are allowed one eccentricity. You must dress as plainly as possible, but you can have one exclimation point. Or a question mark.
A nice ring, a tie pin, a weird hat, a belt buckle, whatever.
The moment I had any money, I began loading myself up with eccentricities.
I covered myself in so much faux pas that people try to eat me.
Eat me or call me a faggot.

Sorrow broke her leg when she hit the ground
When I violated the egg I found

I'm trying to get myself back into this blog. I've had it for so long that I forget what I've said.
I forget what stories I've told you. I know I've repeated myself.
I'm trying to find a new format, or design, or structure so I will be interested.
I'm going back to THE SKINNY THE DIRT and maybe I can build on that.
EXCITING SHIT.


SK

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The Roar of the Liquorbrain was Lionesque.

By Stilts Bangar.

I haven't written on here in a dog's spell.
There's nothing I can do that now. I haven't felt compelled to come to the table with my wet cards and sandwich crusts.
I feel like the food's covered in curious worms and the cards are dried in wear curvatures, so here it goes.

This is the third day of not smoking any cigarettes and not even a fucking one and this is the truth, probably forever.
My Phillipino girlfriend drew me an elephant in my favourite colours. It's a special one, and it's supposed to bring me good luck. I plan on having it tattooed on my somewhere. Here's a hint: it's my fucking face, asshole.

Awhile back I got really drunk and did a bunch of speed and got a girl's number. I learned that when I'm on autopilot I'm capable of incredible things. My sobriety fucks everything up.
At the same time, I wrote her number down wrong, lest I would have been penis deep in her maybe an hour later. Instead I pissed in plain view. We got kicked out of
I was single then. Everything was urgent. I spent all my money trying to prove something. A friend of mine spent $1000 in a week.
He spent a thousand dollars on submarine sandwiches.
We were banned from 2 seperate venues for starting fights. One of them was because of a friend's red pants. The other was because we were talking in British accents and it made someone furious.
I'm trying to get a job at an ice cream shop. I'm wearing a tie and drinking whiskey. There's nothing I want more right now than a cigarette. I would kill you for one, definately.
An old Chinese man was flying a kite by himself at the bottom of a hill. He gave me a sideways look.

Tom with the Hair was drinking rum one night. He thought it was a good idea to chase it with milk. I pointed at him and told him it was an omen. Then we played Nazi Zombies.
Later that night someone gave me the nickname "sex hair," and someone on the street called us faggots. Then it started to rain. We went to an Irish bar and listened to everybody stomp on the wood floor. A friend dared me to switch off a girl's Insulin box.
I don't drink milk because of shit like this.

I'm gonna get my internet shut off cause I'd rather spend my money on Greek food.
I stopped smoking to save money, but now I'm spending all my cash on condoms.
What a country!

This is Stilts Bangar signing off!



SK

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ThEMusic - Oct.29/2010.

By Yawni Code.

Slaine - The Religion
Bloody Beetroots - Cornelius
Cradle of Filth - Beast of Extermination
Twiztid - What I'm Feelin'
Sabac Red feat. Ill Bill - When The Lights Go Out
Fall Out Boy - I Don't Care
Cubbiebear - Punch Pretty Women For Fun

SK

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Son of a Motherfucker.

By Wicked Stripe.


I've fallen into old habits, but I have money now so it is masqued.

Nothing happened during Homecoming. I lost a ring and walked around with pills in my shoe. Before I moved them into my shoe, I was stomping through a house party with a bag filled with liquor and drugs, wearing a tie that everyone had something to say about.
I need to dress more ridiculously. I've begun down this road, and there's no beginning to the road. The beginning was great, but the beginning is over. I need to end up looking like some scarecrow space pimp.

The previous night we were hanging out at greasy MyBar. The dance floor is the size of a bale of hay. Me and some of the others passed a dirty playing card to each other with our mouths. I walk around this world like everything is new to me, so odds are you've done this before.
I'm pouring Crown Royal into a coke bottle and I don't know why.
I walk outside and it's always a gale force wind. Some message is trying to be delivered but I'm a total son of a bitch.
A son of a motherfucker.

I write more in Million Dollar Cuffs these days, because I've got something to prove.
To you, I don't need to prove nothing.
I've got 2 orders of business cards and both of them have typos. Remember when I ran my own business? Remember when we lived in a crack house? Remember when I went to chef school? Remember when I was young and could get away with this shit?

Everytime we go to a grocery store drunk I feel like I need to steal some cheese.
There's nothing better than brie and being drinked. This I tell you now, and you look me in the eyes and tell me I'm lying.

I'm psyching myself up to quit smoking again. It's like breaking up with a long term girlfriend; it'll take me a month to build a case in my head. I feel confident I can do it. It's costing too much money, and you have no idea how bad my lungs and throat are.
It's hilarious and you would hate me.
It has to be after this weekend, though. Of course.
Because I'm going to be drunk and on drugs and yelling at the sky like it was a robot that turned into a baby.
Somewhere up there is a Starchild, and I can't let that shit slide.

Everytime I go out, I need to decide who I am going to be that night.
I need to choose a personality. I usually end up sticking with it.
If I go into any social situation blind, I collapse. I don't know what to do with myself.
I started this life out being shy, bitter, and artistic. Everyone hates those people.
Somehow I've convinced everyone I'm not that person.
But I need to keep a very impressive collection of masks, lest I risk being discovered for the manic depressive ego maniac that I am.
I feel myself becoming tired of all of it. I don't know what I'm doing right now. I feel like I'm losing my mind again.

SK

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The Homecoming.

By Dani Compose.

The following is a deleted post from my other, school-related blog, Million Dollar Cuffs. It was redacted because you're not supposed to promote illegal activities, and certainly not illegal activities in response to an illegal activity.

I'm going to preface this by saying that this blog entry is rated R, for language and sexualized language.

In the schitzophrenic burg called Kingston, there are 2 schools that you need to know the names of.
St. Lawrence College and Queens University.
The best way I can explain it is that they're siblings. One is the nerdy brother who wears bowling shoes and gets erections at inappropriate times, and one is the liability of a sister, who experiments with all things and gives it up too easy.
St. Lawrence College is the sister.

Every year Queens University has a big event called Homecoming. I tell you now that Queens Homecoming is this weekend. It's for Queens students, present and past, to congregate and drink and watch a football game and wear letterman jackets.
The thing is, it also attracts people from miles around - even from the wonderful United States - and most cool people from St. Lawrence.
Because, at the end of the day, there are no rules. It's the Somalia of beer.
As a result, police are also brought in from miles around. Officers on horses, in cars, in SWAT vans, and maybe a helicopter. I've been going for many years, even before I was enrolled or lived in Kingston. The streets were packed with people, sluts and fights sprung from every corner like ghouls, and mistakes were made at an impossible speed.
It was like Mardi Gras in the fall, and if that sounds lame, then you're maybe half right.

Homecoming is an old tradition for the university, going back something something whatever.
It's a big deal. Everyone talks about it, everyone gets jazzed for it, and everyone plans for it.
There is, however, a thick pool of bitterness that exists beneath this, like a grimy water table.
Most Queens students will tell you that all the misbehavin' that occurrs during this weekend is on the part of St. Lawrence students, and tourists and those people who have no true anchor to the event.
They don't want their hot sister up in there selling blowjobs for high fives, or ruining the big job interview by having cocaine explode from their bra.

What they fail to realize, and what I hope to sell you on here, is that St. Lawrence has a tradition of its own, and it's equally as valid.

Ruining Queens Homecoming.

It is absolutely important that representatives of St. Lawrence show up and have that coke shoot from their bras. Draw a penis on a car. Throw a punch at some guy's popped collar, miss, and fall in the garbage. We absolutely need to stomp into the festivities like a skeletonized Santa Clause falling through a chimney in August.

St. Lawrence students will shoulder none of the blame for any of this. If anything goes wrong, someone in the university will be fixing the ladder. We college people have zero liability, and it's the most important thing in the world that we abuse that, because we will never have a homecoming of our own. Queens built a great, fancy snowman, and it's our job to go and piss on it. It's the law of nature; it's inarguable.

Might I suggest deception!

Get together 10 of the smallest, drunkest girls you can and parade them around telling everyone they're in Economics. Throw on your salmonest polo shirt and tell everyone you're trying to be a scientist. Wear your plaid shorts.
2 AM rolls around. Guess what? Those weren't bare legs, they were flesh-coloured pants. Rip those pants off like you're living in the 80's. Break out the firehose connected to a vat of creamed corn. You go ahead and you creamed corn that whole campus.
I want you to make it so St. Lawrence college is classified as a police state.
There's no war like an academic war. This is our Pearl Harbour.
We're Japanese now, by the way.
Fly yourself into that ship. Your government just pumped you full of crystal meth because nobody knew what it was yet, sat you in a plane, and told you to figure it out.
You're patriotic, you're manic, and you're not from around here.

For colleges everywhere.

SK

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Sex Brass.

By Tm Bmb.

I've gotten three girls pregnant four times.
These things, you can accept. I like watching people get used to things.
I like watching myself adapt to inarguable truths.

Bwtchr had a bedframe. I've had so much sex on floors and broken mattresses; I freak out on a nice bed. I'll go to town on it like a town tackling some nonsense. The frame was black metal. There's precious few things more satisfying than grabbing hold of a frame or headboard during the thing.
She had her own room in the crack house we lived at. The Parliament Brothel.
This blog goes back to 2005. There are years where I only posted a couple things a month. I don't know what I've said. I mentioned more than once that this is the lamest part of stream of consciousness, to cover my tracks. I have a lot of stories, but if I repeat myself, you'll see the cracks.
As if this thing isn't all cracks.
This fucking guy.

So, she had her own room in the crack house we lived in for a year. When we fought - and we had evil, sick, dark fights - we could be seperated. But you know as well as I do that it wouldn't help.
It was the sex that frusterated me the most. She never wanted to go all night. She never wanted to make a big deal of it.
Maybe a million people need to tell me to shut up.
But you know as well as I do that it wouldn't help.

Maybe I shouldn't complain. When you're young - so young - your goals are so managable. All you want is that one girlfriend, or that one experience. Something that will signal that you're headed in the right direction. Steps like stones along a narrow stream. Everything's so clear up until you breach something and end up in a lake. Surrounded by the world, every angle holding successes of equal merit. You did that one thing - that first time - and now you just need to keep doing it. Some people don't need to. Some people like relationships. I like those people.
But I need sex. And if you can't keep up, then I will resent you very quickly. It took me just a little bit to figure that out, but everything's alright now.

Cadence had the lust in her just like I did. We broke out the toolbox and got to it. Rode the lines of pain and explore how long 2 bodies could angrily hate being alone.
That lust was symptomatic of worse madness. It's usually the case.
I've got a worse madness in me somewhere.
The one before her too. Same story. What stupid nickname did I give her? Something to do with her red hair. But maybe I wasn't that clever. 2 girlfriends in a short burst, both of them coworkers from the sex store I worked at. Both of them liked to get it like criminals.
Stories to tell at the wedding.

She ransomed a book of mine. Tried to use it as leverage. To this day I don't know what she wanted from me. The book cost me $100 and it was about mythology. I told her she could keep it.
And when we saw each other again, it didn't take much for us to fuck. Because it's all madness and blackness and wrongskulled senselessness.
Just 2 bodies expressing their fury regarding being alone.
Hair like the nile, whatever that means.

Some people want to have a big penis, but it's more trouble than it's worth. It can make the other party bleed. It can cause a shriek in that decibal that has you triggering the hazard lights. It can cause problems. Sex is the last place you want to use restraint. I've had people put the kaibosh on the act for this reason. That's the last thing in the world you want. It's below death and poverty, I promise you.

It's more of a burden, though. Because I've got this cool special unique body part, and I feel like I have to use it as often as I can, otherwise it's a waste. It becomes an obsession. I fucked a girl who found the prospect of me being in porn attractive. The things that emerge when you get people talking during tenderized moments. Everybody dies, though, and these things don't truly matter. It's obligation, and it's to feed my ego. It must be fed, otherwise it turns on me and I become violent.
But what else am I here to do? What else do I have to offer the world?
What else am I good at?

If I had a mind to boast, I could be all about that. I could walk around being a genius and I could have a book written about me. That would be great. I could make something of value, instead of writing stories structured on madsanity, selling myself and practicing all manner of abuse to get the most I can from this ironic life.

You show a drunk girl a bottle of vodka and you might as well have flashed a thousand dollar bill.

Having sex on floors, for me, is like having sex in cars: I always get caught. I've had sex in a car only twice, but that's because the police always end up catching us. And then I need to talk myself out of being arrested for fucking a non-hooker.
Last time I fucked on a floor I got caught. There's no cool way to go about salvaging the situation. It's like being caught up in a dice game: you'd rather be caught gambling properly.

So many girls like being hit in bed. To connect this to where I was going earlier. Getting it like criminals.
They'll never mention it unless you get them talking, and you absolutely must get them talking, otherwise you're not doing it right.
Hit, choked, cursed at. Everyone's a monster during the right sex. Good sex will make you horrible. It'll make you a stereotype. You'll leave with marks on your body, you'll smell like something new, and you won't be able to function properly.
I go out into the world fully intent on wrecking the hell out of vaginas. Some people treat sex like gassing up a car. Every sex should be like a 9/11. You've got something to prove and you're trying to impress god.
I have a drawer filled with handcuffs and nipple clamps and condoms and a ball gag. There's also a stethoscope.
Because you never know.

This is the text exchange that occured as I was writing about my terrorist sex:
Anonymous Number: Hey sexy.
Me: Who is this?
Anonymous Number: We fucked once.
Me: You're going to have to be more specific.

I'm being haunted by fuck ghosts. I am a fuck ghost pimp.
Don't you never forget that.

I don't know why I started this post. I must have had something to say.

SK

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Cop-Blocked.

By Wicked Stripe.

I'm checking in. I'm checking it out.

"Serious People, Serious Gloves" is done in first draft form. 250 pages of some of best shit I am capable of doing. If you don't like it, you're either from the future or a total bitch.

What am I going to do with it?

I'm going to do all I can.

School started last week. I'm in Kingston at St. Lawrence college taking advertising.

I'm in a computer lab right now because I don't have internet. I'm making comics; "Human Error," first appearing in "Vilume."

I'm going to tell you all about how I spent too much money and saw the end of the world through a new lens.

I met Jacob standing outside having a cigarette. We pointed at each other because we were the only ones wearing leather jackets. He told me he stole his from his friend. I told him I stole my hat from my friend and bought my leather jacket for $20. We wandered around talking about having sex with women.

The first night we all went out, we wandered the club area called The Hub. We were too drunk; a bottle of vodka, half a bottle of whiskey, some shots of something else. I was so drunk I bought a bottle of Coke Zero.

Coke Zero is an impossibly bad product.

We went to 2 keggers, both broken up by the police not 10 minutes after we arrived. I called it being cop-blocked. Cock-copped didn't sound as good. At the same time, cop blocked could be anything. You imagine a cop putting up police tape barring you from a sandwich. You imagine a cop gently pushing your shoulder as you try to walk into a barn. You imagine a lot of things. At the top of the list there is not you being all mackin' and then the flashlights showing up.

We're not allowed to smoke cigarettes within 10 metres of the entrance to the school. There's a sign by the front doors that reads "we share the air." There's a parking lot by the entrance and I just find the whole situation shitwirey.

That's a word I just invented. It's exactly what it looks like.

Like a mushroom cloud in the vaguest shape of a penis.

The next night we hit up the clubs. The bars. The all over. I dragged my body forward with zombie strings. We were climbing walls and drinking in shrubberies and yelling at commerce students. A group of men were standing in the parking lot of Pizza Pizza, holding a slice of pizza aloft in the air. Everyone was chanting "pizza! Pizza! Pizza!" There were 2 small girls huddled in the crowd with a look of fright upon their faces. I threw my finger at them: "Hey! HEY! Look how terrified they are!"

Everyone that night was looking for a fight. We watched women claw at each other like they were dogs. I saw people exchanging cash. One night I heard someone say "This isn't Sparta, this is madness." That's about all you need to know about anything.

I've never talked on this blog about girls I've slept with unless we're in a relationship, so if this blog sounds a lot like me drinking and not fucking then you're barking up your father's tree.

I met a girl with Amsterdam Bicycle glasses. She said to me: "I can tell from your skull ring that you're a badass, but you also smell like babies." Nobody would know what to do with that on their smartest, sexiest day.

The third night we went to someone's house on a street that had no sounds. I don't think anyone else lived on the street. Someone was playing guitar on a couch on the sidewalk. I was drinking Jack Daniels; I was wild eyed and manic. I was panicking like I was trying to win a panicking contest, sitting alone on the couch, chain smoking like it was something to do.

I sat around the back yard on top of a see-saw picnic table. A 300 pound man with his face covered in piercings heard me when I said I was weirded. He called himself Big Blue. He offered me a pill of something on the free. I absolutely took this pill. He claimed that he went to prison for 5 years because he cut the hands off a pedophile.

He said the pill was the mother of MDMA, but you know it was just speed.

At 4 AM we went to another house. 5 adults had brought a malnourished stripper home and each one was trying to get up in her nest. It was like watching a gang of raccoons fighting over an ear of corn. We rubbed our faces as the drugs began to wear off. A cab driver told us about all the sluts he had sitting right where we were. I don't know what to do with that information now, but at the time it made me furious.

I need to buy a bass guitar and finish this mess. You can just go ahead and tax a butt.

SK