Crawling the Carpet

Up To The Hour Updates On What My Penis Is Feeling And The Thinking Kinda Like CNN, But With Cock......Yeaaah Baby
follow clintspenis at http://twitter.com
I'm Clint Jones. I'm a capricorn in heat that writes a blog that's been described "like porn", but there's no porn. I'm a post-production audio engineer which means I don't do THAT much. And yes, I'm fucking amazing.
I was born with no regard for the quiddity of the world. Humans are transporting future humans within their loins and I'm forced into caring for the lack of never caring about anything. Sympathy is diapered with visions of streams hooking up with streams until America is flooded and we're all cages of bone, teeth, hair, and nails. I am not at least any one's friend as much as I am at most anyone's enemy. This crossed my mind as she let her head rest on the armrest of the couch and swallowed the gooey remnants of everything we forget too quickly. Jobs are alibis and alibis are truths split between a person's stone and light. I've read that laziness is often mistaken for patience. The only example I can think of is how I was due in 1983, but I felt I should plan a little more and wait 'til 84. Splitting my mother's ribs with my overdeveloped length, I pulled back the curtains of a movie with no plot or point, only climaxes. The oceans were there to stroke the phallus of our invalid abyss. In a world where man is no longer man and everyone is categorized by heritage, proudly displaying family trees even if they are not trees, but burned crosses, charred skyscrapers, collapsed mines, or black box recordings taped over with Rick Astley's song. I work hard for my lack of not caring about my own reservations. As far as I'm concerned, I have no reservations. In the facade of trying too hard, I am really not trying at all. I have never tried to sustain a connection with the pitiful examples of humanity that surround me. They are shit. I am shit for being surrounded by shit. As I light another cigarette and stare at the corner of 28 St S and University, I'm convinced that this is how God also must have felt. If God was a man and not a war many choose to fight. Some run from him, many surrender, and everyone loses.
Every morning, I'm responsible for recruiting myself to go to work for me. In the essence of all that's real, I've come to realize that only what I want to be real is actually real. If I forget about the time she wrote me, torturing my memory with her scent for weeks, then I am not dead, but merely not breathing as the gruesome contradiction of filthy American that I have become. There is no time for me to register my feelings or cares when most people would rather me listen intently and pretend to care. People tell me what I should have done and I act as if I don't realize that they are only talking to themselves. Coaching themselves through me and to me. As if I'm a rubber reciprocal for their shortcomings and lessons learned. Whatever I assume is usually the way something is. At some point, I stopped assuming and started knowing wholeheartedly. There is an untouchable beauty in understanding that in everything you know, you really know nothing. The process of life and death is a grinding old newspaper press and we're all lying on each others' sidewalks waiting to be picked up and read with great interest. At the same time, I would be happy being immediately tossed in the trash.
This is where I talk major shit incessantly and seriously which in this resolve, must be heard daily: click and allow the habit to form.
Crawling the Carpet and the Bush Administration
agree that there is a new, more appropriate term for crackhead:
"crackheads shall no longer be labeled
"crackass crackheads", but we will now pronounce them herein:
creatures of habit for us to cohabitate with."