Sometimes, people would like to have babies.  This is something that happens to most people, and I do not disclude myself from that number.  When it comes time to have a baby, it is important that you don't use a condom.  Otherwise, if you don't want a baby, perhaps you are sleeping with someone that you are not really interested in, you ought to use a condom, or a baby will be the result of the consummation of your transient interest.  If you don't use a condom you will have performed an act that many street-folk and road-liasons like to call, 'going cavity hopping with an unleashed beast'.

There are other ways to misuse condoms.  I once witnessed, in the flesh, me personaly, as if I was a journalist or a temp correspondant, a man deep-frying a condom, a whole shock of condoms, in a massive deep-fryer.  He was planning on serving them, with ketchup, to a group of cultist dinner guests.  This was when I ran away, hoping my presence had gone undetected for fear of a secrecy clause- calling for my death after having apprehended them in their dirty acts.

A way of using a condom, an unconvenitonal way, that, nonetheless, I would hesitate to damn as a 'misuse' is the ever-popular (that is,  hyper-localized popularity that endures and endures), 'seeing how big a phallus you can fit the rubber around, before the contraceptive bursts'.  I've done this with fence posts and horse cocks (in keeping with my rural values and setting) and find it to be it to be both practical and fun.

Lastly, please refrain from hiding condoms in obscure locations or (worse) dispersing used condoms all over your house and then waiting in a hidden locale for people to walk into the room and see your used laundry and then photograph their reaction.  This is BAD!  Worse, it's AWFUL!  If you do this, perform self-flaggelation and then contact the help line.  You have a disease.

I've had many.  Most of them I have been uncomfortable with, or have otherwise resented, but occasionally I run into a deadline that seems to make sense, and I am grateful for it.  This is a rare occurence, but it happens, and I wanted to mention it, because most people have a very bad feeling towards deadlines and I think this is unfair.

I was once under contract to perform the typical duties of a "Woodman" on a young "Starlet".  I needed to "give her adequate wood" during the shoot of a "DP" scene, in which a partner "Woodman" would accompany me in feeding the "Starlet" some 'healthy "wood"'.  The potentially-literally sticky part of it: I was on a deadline.  We needed to both achieve maximal "wood" before "August 17th" as it was then that the "Starlet" went "on the rag".  To think that, if we procrastinated in the fulfillment of our duties, we might plunge our ample, veiny "wood" into that most fragile cleft of the "Starlet" and, instead of being received by a delicious sensation of gripping warmth we might be met by a starchy and chunky glut of noxious debris was upsetting.  So, you see, the deadline was a positive, and we (I'll have you know) performed our duties with rare vigor.

In the profession of castrating monkeys, without going into detail, I will state that deadlines are incredibly effective and well-liked by all participants.

I have never known my face’s impact. Knowledge of its reception, the details of its reception, the second-person angle of any given introduction of my features, is something that has alluded me all my life. Certainly there has been a neither markedly positive or markedly negative response offered by any of the showings I give. And I do give regular showings. Every afternoon, later in the afternoon, this is, I walk from directly outside my compartment, down a small hill, sometimes bathed in preternatural sunlight, the really magical kind, to a place where I take Shift, and at Shift my face is seen and seen. Or is it? I idly theorize while idly calculating totals and change for various people’s purchases, that the wholescale and apparent dismissal, or lack of reciprocity, or lack of registration of any kind, of my face, is due not to the unproved unremarkability of my face, but, perhaps, is more due to folks simply not really seeing it, or acknowleding, consciously, its registration, or the fact that the most unique part of my body has been subsumed by them. And this is not bothersome, merely curious, and tinily segregative in a place much brought together.

One leader of a Country says to another leader of a Country: "Listen, sir, I called up a draft in my Country so we could have a war over our dispute. Unfortunately, every able-bodied citizen in my country has childhood issues that, according to the team of leading psychologists I have working for me, make them (all) unfit for combat. Do you think we could just settle this between us?"

(as administrated by her Ladyship MOTHER4)

Good morning Class.  I’d like to address what is being called by Faculty a “marked increase” in instances in which elements of the Student Body have paraded about the premises in mock pain, disturbingly feigning a shocking array of injuries and injurious mindsets.  While Faculty holds its own views on the matter of Pantomiming Duress, I’d like to discover, if I can, from the Student Body itself, that is, yourselves, why you’ve begun to “markedly increase” this sort of activity and why you believe it is entirely within your ethical limits as a member of this Student Body and citizen of this liberated Country to pantomime a sallow surfeit of despair on this campus.  I’d like to initiate this discussion by going to Darren, who has been observed as a prime offender.  Darren?  Can you answer my question?

With all due respect, your Ladyship, you haven’t properly asked a question, save the question of whether or not I can answer your question, that is, the singular question you posed, which I assume is a question indicating a future question of increased coherency, the one that has yet to materialize in all its concreteness, which, in a sense, I do not know if I can answer, and, therefore, in answer to the only real question you’ve asked: no.

Why are you pretending violence?

With all due respect, your Ladyship, it is not violence we, that is, I and my fellows, that is, those individuals who participate with me, are pretending.  It is, as you previously stated, more along the lines of duress, which, curiously and importantly, is a more artistic and vogue expression, not to mention less destructive, than mere vulgar violence.  As to why we, as you previously stated, pantomime duress, well, that is an easy enough question to answer.  We feel ethically entitled to act, that is, play-act, duress, because many of us simply enjoy it, and do not see what harm it could possibly be doing, as such.

Do you not see it as an insult to this liberated Country and to your Student Body to be play-acting a physical/emotional affect of this type, in a place where graciousness in all manner has been extended for the purpose of eliminating the genuine article, that is, real duress?  You don’t find it to be, at least contextually, an ethical misstep?

To be completely honest, your Ladyship, and with all due respect, history proves that an attempt at the national burial of any given affect is categorical folly, and that, if I were to hazard a thesis for explicating the genesis of this behavior, it would be that we are, as a Student Body, unhappy with the lack of unhappiness, and are, as such, truly unhappy, or perhaps are unhappy or under duress for other reasons, but can find no outlet for this unfamiliar uprising in our limbic systems, that we express ourselves in sarcastic effort, or something along those lines, though I know I risk much by stating as much.

And now I would like to ask the rest of the class if this partially or completely describes how they feel.

(the Class, that is the individuals comprising the Student Body, raise their hands.)

Lots of people thought his taste in movies was too brown.  He liked ghost stories and stories where there was a lot of fog.  Stephen King usually had lots of fog in his short stories and they were best.

The writing was a compulsive thing.  He loved to be sappy and he had strange ideas about what was ethical and not.  If someone interrupted him during work, well hell, that would be unethical.  He was, after all, never not trying to save the Universe with his prose (pull Its drowning head up by the hair, so to speak). 

Inside of the writing, there were ethics there too, of course.  Your writing must never be vacuous.  Formative trickery must never be allowed unless in movement toward the instruction or emancipation of the reader.  Everything must have a function, even the examination of function must have an end, and that end must be redemptive or otherwise truthful. If ever you felt yourself slipping, you must write about it.  Like so:

Excerpt A: What have I begun to do?  Have I begun to isolate creamy intestinal models, models of moods, and mechanistically melt them into hollow language?  O! the simplicity of that.  Have I settled into avoiding interlacing and overlapping tones, superfluous forms, and distilled sustenance?  Have I begun circumventing the act of expertly transmuting brittle truths into trustworthy narratives?  Why does my heart cry out in shame at this?  Why cannot I reroute my ambition?

Lots of people thought his posture was bad, particularly when he listened to Nirvana.  He liked grunge and post-punk less than he let on.  Caught often, was he, trying not to be ironic yet doing ironic things like not being honest.

Putatively in retention of much pure awareness; self-styled as the man, poised and lingering, in the white fire.  Despite this, he never managed to produce a proof to justify all (of) his prerequisites.

Excerpt B:  The artist’s injunction: to attempt to resonate with all conditions.  Then: to contain perspectives.  To catch birds, and display those birds in cages of gold and brass.  Set them as high as you can, and make them seen by all, even if all must work to see them.

The writing was never not fun.  Sloppy, rough, hack; a real slippery grind; yet fun.  A process.  A thing where you felt pregnant in the open summer air, though there’s nothing in your tummy but rice and lentils.  A mindstew lying in fat wait.  Waiting to be dumped into scales, measured and expunged. You see, you hear, you are prepared; like the Bride of Christ. 

Never not in preparation.

There's something totally freaking awesome going on here.  Check it oooot!

One of those men who is constantly, and not without bustle, trying to define himself.  Indefatigably articulate and short of breath, with a German accent, possibly cultivated, throwing a disarming lilt which seethes with the lurking bulk of untied knots.  A towering figure, in height and weight, to add to his distinction and narcissus, and an academic, if that doesn’t go without saying, who seemed never sure when enough deconstruction was enough.  When he talked, it seemed that, to him, the exercise of fracturing the illusion of contained streams was more of a principle than a deliberate tactic; a birthright, not a development.  His eyes were at once piercing and hollow.  Continually suspected of contrivance, he was, even at his most opened, when the dilated fusion and consummate exteriorization of a delicate value was at stake.  Approaching enigmatic, he was, in a cultural climate where the real mystery is how people began considering themselves such.  I knew him for a very short period of time.  I don’t remember him well at all.  He said one thing to me as I passed him in an incredibly institutionalized hallway, ‘It’s a trifling thing, to differentiate between the stride of a human and the stride of a dog.’  And before I was able to offer much in the way of reciprocity he was away.  I wonder now if he was addressing me at all.  I suspect he wasn’t.  At the time I was a narcissist too, and only slightly less a misogynist, which is, in it’s own way, highly contradictory.

It is a difficult place to be. To ingest so much meaning and insight and return only the meekest of consolidations of such. I go about my day drawing generations of enrichment from one act or another, immersing myself in the plenum of Form and its genealogies; opening my eyes to as much as I can, for that is a writer’s only job, and a job it certainly can be. I open my eyes even in dreams where the fare is harsh-bright and cuts my stomach on its way in and in return for all of that I offer what? An inspired paragraph or two? A series of textual twitches or sporadic communicative thrusts akin to a sex-starved male’s climactic seizuring? Ah! Innovator I am not! Perfecter I am, but this, this turgid flow is surely owing its source to indiscipline. Why would I be hampered by myself? And why would I not? Is it ambitious to recognize that there is no sacrifice involved, no metaphysical commitment to a life of ironically describable torment, to enable the conversion of one’s Life into an enduring Object that vastly humbles its creator and those who contact it? For now I realize that there is no difference, no necessary or ontologically significant differentiation, between Life and the gradual eminence of a Song so tragic and White it slips the bonds of supportive structure and becomes it’s own bared textbook on the ecstasy of terror and the trajectory of Man. That is the life I would hope we all could live and perhaps are, all of us, living.

girls make everything more meaningful / girls put a smile on my face / girls make life all the more livable / girls make me beam inside I'm in love a thousand times / where 'ere I look there shalt I find / and that is why I need girls to survive

Though I am a Canadian and cannot have intimately followed the man's political career as it progressed or digressed the way that my fellow Americans could, I totally love this guy. I've been watching his public apperances (Ellen, Michigan State University, etc..) ever since getting four hundred pages into the first part of his autobiography. I once saw him place his hand on Bon Jovi's arm and leave it there, a silent gesture of support, a gesture so subtle/vibrant, gentle/strong, amorphous/crystallized it seemed vaguely trascendent. Sometimes I read all about his politics and then I stay awake and bob up and down to dance music (evidently energized) and smile and wonder, 'Who else does this at 3:42 AM in a sober frame?' And then my brow crumples, because the chances are I am being terribly self-involved, and blogging about it simply cements the irony (situated as we are in this disgusting attention economy)!

(the following is a REAL letter sent to a REAL professor in Sussex) Dear Sir, It has come to my attention that you are the convenor of a certain Sexuality and Creative Writing class. If this is case I have a query for you and I sincerely wish for you to answer it. To that end I have contracted formality, a contract which owes its origin to the idea, doubtfully solely my own, that formal tones engender confidence in academic individuals. Confidence I may need from you, confidence in the veracity of my intent, if I am to solicit the opinions or facts I desire. Perhaps I have garnered as much and can now I can pry you for the big evince. But first, I suppose, you require the question. Here it is: Do you have any ideas as to the effects of masturbation on creative writing? I would particularly like to know if there is some arcane value, some nebulous enabler, inherent in seminal plasma, which its release renders an author devoid of. Or if, conversely, the prolonged limitation of an individual's proclivity to indulging in terse or turgid self-arousal might manifest, in the prose, as a series of overwrought and overbearing paragraphs rank with capitol letters and misplaced romantic fare. Thank you in advance if you have any comment. Cheers, Brian David

...as most grown kids will attest, the best of times are snatched out of regimen, when the smallness of propreity presses, imposing its mean strictness upon you, and you escape it.  It is this crucial factor of finite rebellion that transforms a bleak and boring moment, spent liesurely, into an ineffable keepsake; though both moments are spent in the same place doing the same things...