I should mention, since the subject may not be very clear, that *yo soy un pesado*, or at least that's what people tell me. Roughly translated, this means that I am a type of small, tropical fish that lives off one of those so-called *beautiful* islets west of Galicia, the playground of stunted men. I woke up as this *pesado*, or small, tropical fish, one morting after an unrelenting dream about an old, fat ex-friend named Hana. Hanička had lost her corporeal being. I'll mention once again that she was we...
> I would imagine that the evolution of your ancestors involved some sort of microbe that feasted on fermented material, extracting sugar from it that other microbes could not, such as a high alcohol tolerant yeast. I could see your great great grandparents being single celled organisms that evolved around petroleum geysers at the bottom of the sea. It would also account for your hatred of sunlight, and your sexual preference for albino brine shrimp. According to my [Promethease report](http://thinklikeami...
I told Miki earlier via *Facebook Chat* (a bane, itself, to existence). And we have just now decided to instead use either Whatsapp or Viber or, confusingly, both simultaneously since *Facebook Chat* is a bane to anyone's existence. In fact, the existence of one who uses *Facebook Chat* is mottled with decay. These fraught souls wither before others. I, too, am afflicted, obviously, but am stronger in *hara* and *spirit* than social wallowing ilk. Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I use...
The current music singing in my ears is *Dogshit on the Shoulders of Giants* by **Upsilon Acrux**. It's not first date music. Perhaps it could be second date music. My guess is that it'd be music more suited to a dismembering party. That being ascertained, I remind everyone for the first time that *Shambal Brambel* actually conducted a dismembering party once upon a time. Unfortunately, the foci of the entertainment were already deceased. Shambal had grown tired of one peculiar *arm* of his Spanish family....
I'm slightly surprised that my livejournal still exists. Its last entry is from 2008 and it is incredibly generic. I posted a photo of myself by recommendation of Aimee Estes, a person best left to push up the poppies. Furthering a fruition of opium is something beneficial that her useless bag of flesh could do for humanity. Anyhow, I began going through an entry from *Christmas Day* 2005 entitled *100 Things About Me* a month or so ago. This evening, I am on number **13**, which reads > In general, I like...
I began the *specifications* of a new piece of music a few days ago and it crept into my dreams during the subsequent nights. Out of these somnambulant encounters came a clear structure. This one will be under four minutes, I promise, dear Demi-God of musical composition who forms a dome over me of inquiet, resonant, conscious chambers. As I have been wont to do since my distant past, out from my hara sprang a sort of chord progression. Initially, it was simple, but then morphed. I am considering now to le...
I decided to *re-read* the *Foundation* books by Isaac Asimov. I half jokingly write *re-read* because I don't believe I have ever read even the initial trilogy in its entirety. Following a suggestion by Isaac himself somewhere near the aorta of the internet, I begun *Prelude to Foundation* a few days back. It's puttering along quite nicely. Psychohistory is it its infancy. Or, rather, psychohistory has been *conceived* and its gestation will crescend during the curve of the story. Or that is what I predict...
Before Shambal knew with any clarity he'd be sessile for centuries, he was a man of ephemera. He'd still be were it not for the condition keeping him tied to a hovel in a wasted land. His own waste continues to churn beneath him to create power and a superficial luxury. Robotic apparati scuttle, clunking here and there, often even tidying up and bringing him required quantities of comestibles. The quantity is immense. In order to excrete enough to power his small hovel, including the ancient batteries on wh...
As I candidly continue from another curious day: > I try to never order the same thing twice in a row at a restaurant. I do go to restaurants time and again. I resist mightily the urge to stab contemporary clientele with soiled utensils. Soiled utensils are the best if you go through with murderous intentions since it infuses victims with your silava. This liquid, which flows freely from a crevasse beneath your lolling tongue, is like a tattoo you force upon another person. You can even do without the cut...
Before you shoot yourself in the face with a water pistol filled with bleach to cleanse the horrors of not knowing the source of the *subject* of this entry, I shall just start out by telling you. It's from the wobbly lyrics of the first and title song, *Largo*, from an album I just acquired by **Bill Rieflin and Chris Connelly**. The latter sure has a wobbly voice. The record still got made and should show me that I should never be insecure about my singing, playing or flailing away at any inanimate or rec...
I finished breakfast. Were I to say something similar in Spanish, *Acabé el desayuno*, I'd be routinely criticised in fair *La Rioja* for grammatical misuse. At worst, I'd be called a *panchito* and stoned until fragments of bones protruded from flesh. Perhaps I say this because I happened idly upon my ex-spanish teacher last night during an evening stroll. I ignored him, or he ignored me, or simply didn't notice me in the crowd. I'd prefer to think the former. In my very short lived class, after my stoning...
