You don’t know me!

Quiet? Unassuming? What? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

aaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Well, not quite. They used to think “he’s such a nice boy.” That’s the ones ya gotta look out for. The ones that think the dirty little thoughts in the back of the classroom. The ones that project a nice, clean image while they’re fantasizing about doing the naughty things. because they’re naughty.

I sometimes go back and read my stream of consciousness ramblings. I’m often amused. I don’t have much to say, really, but I have a lot of things to be to go to wonder if it’s a thing that I want to steal that thing where it goes and no, no, no I saw it there and it was a C7 to Gm to B7 and it wasn’t hard but I tried not to tune it down where the buzzing started stopped started stopping to what? Where? No, I unfriended Kurt. I did. Because he didn’t seem like chatting or catching up and his replies were terse and he got fat in his old age and then I’m forced to reflect to see if that was all real or if that was all a facade a cover a cover up a sham a surrogate for that thing I can’t couldn’t didn’t want to find to admit that I was living a lie was I and did you make it this far?

But maybe rambling in a train of thought mode will keep people from reading these notes? Maybe I should move them to my blog. Maybe I Should go there be there eat the thing. Maybe. I should. Maybe. It was there. Innocuous. Screaming in a big shitdisco a fiasco a thing. A thing.

I wondered if she was going to be offended. I opened up and admitted that thing, my he-who-should-not-be-named to him and he didn’t reply. The red is deep, I admit it, and the colors are bold. The thing is, I was serious. The thing is, I wanted a reply. the thing is. The thing is. The thing is.

It’s funny how an off-hand comment will challenge your view of yourself. What did he mean by THAT? Did people really think THIS of me? Or that? Or what? Or me? Who? Yeah, da da da BUMP da da da BUMP da da da BUMP it was that guy that did it. It was a thing, twice. It went there, and back again, like the creeping crack in my dashboard. Persistent, mocking, scowling and taunting.

Hey, buddy (I hate when people call me buddy or pal), I don’t think of things like you. I reject what you’re telling me. I reject it. I can’t tell you because you wouldn’t understand. But in your crazy little world, it was perfectly okay to throw me under the bus. Yeah, it’s fucking great, isn’t it. Yeah, good for you, buddy. Good for you. You go ahead and believe that because I don’t. I’ve seen too much to pretend. I’ve seen it. And I’m done. I’m almost done.

Later, I’ll tell you a story that works in both forward and reverse, much like the rabbit and the tortoise story from Goedel, Escher, and Bach, and Eternal Golden Braid. The same, but not. It works, it’s all about simplicity in complexity. Because complexity is a farce. It’s a lie. It’s a fucking whore! Recursion can do so much. And a canon by Bach is no different, really, at a simple level, than the rabbit and the tortoise story. But I haven’t quite finished. But now is not later. Though later is just an illusion. As are these words. As is all time, now that you mentioned it. Well, I mentioned it. But the past isn’t real, either, so I suppose the me that did that isn’t the me that is me doing the me that you’re thinking of now that is the only thing that it can be: is.