Other

Dear Diary,

I have feelings, too.

I think about my feelings. But there are also times when I don't want to. You see, I have feelings, too. Complicated feelings that come from inside. Of me.

I wake up and have a coffee, just like you. I have another cup of coffee and maybe two or three cigarettes. If my bong is nearby sometimes I will smoke it as well. I'm naked. It's maybe 9 in the morning. I spilled something on my clock once so I guess that it's 9 in the morning. I should go to work. Yikes! -coughs- I forgot to clean my bong for a month. Ouch!

Last Sunday I awoke to the bitter tune of 5:30 after a sparse couple hours of sleep.  I tried to make some coffee, but the taxi was already waiting out front.  You see, I was headed to Texas.  Specifically, I was going to an observatory located halfway between Fuck-all and Nothing for work.  I hadn't flown in roughly a year, but I'd followed the internet shit-storm about the new TSA scanners and was pretty excited that someone was finally getting paid to look at my junk.  DISSAPOINTING FACT: you do not get a souvenir photo from the new scanners as one would expect from Cedar Point or Lenin's tomb.  I made it through and as I was putting my shoes back on one of the agents asked to see my keys again.

Instead of giving you advice on how to gorge on your endless buffet of free time this summer, I'm going to tell you what not to do, because well. Your dreams might seem feasible, but I was childish once too.

1. Do not take a bike tour of the 7-11's in your county. Your "I'll reward myself with a small slurpee every time I hit one, I've biked the calories off" philosophy is bullshit.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I've finally found the answer. I've conclusively determined that if, by some chance, there is any joy in life whatsoever, it is undoubtedly found in collecting.

"Exactly!" you're thinking to yourself, "Finally, someone who understands my Magic/Pokemon/Yu-gi-oh/Baseball/Star Trek/Twilight/US Presidents trading card obsession!"

Or perhaps you're one of those people who prefer collecting marbles, rocks, or Snoop Dogg action figures. In either case, you're wrong. I'm not talking about that. Because that kind of collecting is dumb and only for people who have no real lives. Oh no, I'm talking about something much greater... I'm talking about the divine hobby of collecting pieces of so-called "useless" trivia.

Cheese pocket, no one knows you like I do.

I eat you from the pot,

I eat you with a spoon.

Levels of cholesterol will be my doom.

Cheese pocket, I love you.

When I get a craving, you're never too far.

I eat you on the job,

I eat you in my car.

I want to serenade you every night with my guitar.

Cheese pocket, I love you.

Woah, Cheese pocket!

Stars in my eyes - heart takes off like a rocket.

Melts on my chest but I don't wanna stop it.

Your face in my mouth and your spread in my locket.

Cheese pocket for life! So don't fucking mock it!

Cheese pocket, I love you.

Did I Boggle your mind with with that 16 letter word?

Is finding Inconsequentially too absurd?

Hell, no it ain't! And neither is this,

jump, jump, jump, king me, bitch!

I'll break hearts and I'll lay the queen

or else I'll shoot the moon because you're not so keen

On my strategy, yo, I'm looking 13 moves ahead

you don't know what's up so lead your king of hearts instead

I trade my pawns for queens, and I castle my king

Why yes, I have thought of everything

I control the middle and you're stuck there in the back

so just huddle in the corner as you wait for my attack.

If you think you're Kasparov, then I'm Deep Blue

You think you're gonna beat me but I'll mate in 22.

Your rook is cooked, just like your knight

And your queen did not put up a fight.

Occasionally, the Gargoyle staff finds the will within its marrow to participate in writing exercises; the prompts, much like the staff, are bizarre and unsettling. The strange fruit of one of our more recent writing exercises is best represented by the following entries, the first, from the great Will Hilzinger (or Wilzinger, as he is more commonly known) and the second from the charming and talented Kat Tomchuck (or Tomkat as she is known at "Huskie's," the Gargoyle's favorite biker bar). See if you can guess the prompt!

Last night a gem of heavy socio-economic commentary by the name of The Perfect Teacher debuted on the Lifetime Movie Network (station of note for its equal cultural relevance) in the coveted 8 P.M. Sunday time slot. Directed by Jim Donovan, a relative newcomer to the television movie scene, but notable for his several "unknown episodes" of "MTV's Undressed" (1999) and the surprisingly well-received (and possibly typo-plagued) 3 Saisons (2009), the story centers on Devon (Megan Park), who we are asked as an audience to believe is seventeen (she's 24 and distractingly good looking), and who is head-over-insane-psycho-betch-heels in love with her teacher, Jim Wilkes (David Charvet).

The screams of the women - they haunted him.  Dozens, even baker's dozens, of those from his past who just... couldn't... take it. He couldn't take it. He couldn't take the echoing shouts, wails and screeches reverberating inside his scull. These screams, these vivid spectres of the past, they were not screams of pain, or sorrow. They were screams of pleasure. Moans, cries and howls of pleasure. For it was his gift, and yet his most unfortunate talent, that every time he made physical contact with someone, they would orgasm. Hard.

High fives lead to disaster. Handshakes required an immediate cold shower, and handshakes -  forget about it. Even his moment of birth had been so physically rewarding to his mother, that she actually tried putting him back in.

His first kiss, his first hand-hold, his first sly brush on the shoulder - all these women had been instantly and embarassingly incapacitated the moment he laid hands. This, of course, meant that he could never make meaningful contact with them, or anyone. To prolong contact meant only to prolong the climax - too much for many to bare. And so he was alone in the world. Alone with the greatest gift, and the most unfortunate talent.