February 21st, 2022 8:13am pst

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.

Gral Jularana

 read ( words)

"Three minutes after finishing the last entry, but keep in mind they all run together anyway. The pants drive the bus. 0653 and I have to do morning shit in a few minutes. The pants drive the bus.

I am hurting more inside lately than in years. The past has taken hold beyond what I could have imagined. Bad situation, and one which I have despised for a very long time, yesterday's little victory notwithstanding. The closet door keeps coming back and pushing those chemical thoughts and memories into me regardless of how upset I may be at a given time. Nothing I try seems to make any difference, and the recollections are no longer up to me. Stuck.

No one is going to like this next observation, but last night there was an episode co-starring Leigh (I may have mentioned her before), who is the woman with the reference standard fucking cat eyes of the universe. Her sister does not share the trait, yet she is still one of my favorite faces. Anyway, no sooner did I see her appear when the race last year popped into my head and I saw those eyes again, along with the remainder of her face. After seven months, I should not be able to remember. The whole thing has me thinking. I am going to put something together and leave it mostly out of this space for good form. I do not need backlash. There has already been enough shit from this flytrap over the years. The assembly will remain behind closed doors and all to myself. NO FICTION, either. Shut up. I know what you're thinking. Leigh's eyes have nothing to do with anything. I only recalled the race girl due to her eyes being of a similar shape. Rare as fuck. Just the eyes.

And no relation to the fact that I was in love with Leigh as a teenager. No relation. None. Third image down. Look at her. That type of classic beauty is gone from the world.

Jularana? Do you remember Jolaimora? Probably not, as it was some time ago. This is not the same. 'Jularana' came from my imagination, yet it is not a combination of names like the last one. There is meaning here, but nothing you may be thinking. All chemistry. Tranen was bloody cauliflower combined with massive desire and confusion. This is different. The pants on the girl last week fucked me up bad, and then the woman bagging groceries almost helped because she wasn't the same person, and then my brain recorded her pants like so many others and I began to connect those two terms again. This is all so very bad. One of these days I'll be completely out of control. Worse than merely out of my mind. Jularana is a state from which there can be no escape whatsoever. 'DTA, Frank. DTA.' Tom said it right. Add that shit to my present state of mind and the cocktail will stir into an explosive mixture. Out of control. The condition of Jularana is inescapable. Nothing I can do but sit here and bitch.

The look on her face was one of two things; either reality or inner desperation, likely the latter. I don't see anything so dramatic such as someone 'knowing' and transmitting that to me in the middle of nowhere and out of the clear, blue sky. I just don't fucking see it. Believe me, I'd love to think there was something magical happening, but unfortunately the chances are slimmer than stainless shim stock. And then the other one more recently pretty much cemented the idea that I've learned nothing since last summer. Not a big surprise there, either. Was my search that bad? Remember when I was driving every day and saw that woman on the side of the road? She had the same facial expression as the middle-aged woman in the Silver Legacy many years ago. Lots of makeup, jewelry, and the appearance of a person yearning for some kind of real connection. She may have been as desperate as I have become in recent years. I'll never know. The one tiny positive is I was very nice toward her because I could read the problems on her face. The race girl was another story because as time has progressed, I look around much more and that means eventually there will be something. Initially it was her height and form. Soon after? The numbers melted and I felt something inside that had nothing to do with desire or that Goddamned obsession. And then the next one just a week ago... This all adds up to not only the idea that I have not grown, but instead my mental and emotional conditions have worsened. None of this can last forever. Something will eventually change and my sense of precognition tells me it will not be good. I need help.

0849. Soon off to the chores. Each day is more difficult than the last. The little 'up' yesterday is fading.

There is almost no reasoning left for me to sit here and analyze because I keep coming back to the same conclusions and ideas. The past fucked me up, likely for good. And then the nearer past hit me again. The only fact I can deduce from that shit is the idea that I have never recovered, and even when I felt better it was always temporary. Too many situations have combined in the last decade-plus and left me a pile of concern. Loss. Hopeless. There have been moments when I said too much and I cannot have that again. Ever. It's embarrassing, honestly. Regardless of blame, I can't see myself as others do, meaning when their eyes meet mine and then the words come out, I end up feeling worse. Just another concern piled atop the rest. Nothing helps, not even this crap. I've said too much. Never should have opened my stupid mouth in the first place. Oh, there had been reasoning behind those conversations, but if I define them here I'll be slapped with so many damaging words that I may not survive the blows. Some thoughts are just too damning to be shared. I feel bad enough already. I don't need more nails.

Jesus God in heaven, her smiling face while opening mail. Damn it. Sorry. Shut up.

I am so fucking pathetic that I have my camera at the ready for some of the scenes in which she looks stunning. Yep, I am going to point and capture her face in certain situations and then probably splay her all down one future essay. Thousands spent on the camera, lenses, and other accessories over several years and I'm going to use it to shoot the television. Pathetic. I have to, though. The compulsion may be insanity. And I don't give a hoot in hell what people think. Whatever may come to mind while reading here or looking at the images is nothing compared to what is happening inside me. Believe it. Pathetic.

Physiology and chemistry. Assemble that shit. Preoccupation so many times within a given day that even I can't fucking believe it anymore. Don't get me going on the mental aspects.

Cold outside again, even with the sun shining. I guess I can remain inside today rather than trying to branch out like yesterday. Well, that went bad anyway, so working in the house is probably better. The last few times I've tried to get something going out there, I ended up driven back inside by the cool air. This is nothing compared to the north or northeast, but after having acclimated to this coastal climate for a decade, the mercury into the forties feels pretty damned cold. The office nags at me every day. The mattress is still lying there from last summer because I don't want it in my garage taking up space. I wanted to keep it for the future of the spare bedroom but lately I can't get myself to give a crap. I would like the mattress the hell out of the house for good, thus leaving some nice storage space and making the office easier to navigate. I had moved my big drafting table to the window in order to get the mattress into the room in such a way that everything is accessible. I don't like it anymore. Changes are now necessary. Very exciting, eh? Better to write about the house rather than the woman's rear end screaming at me yesterday while she bagged her groceries, don't you think? I believe I've already gone off the deep end with the imagery which develops inside me when I see such amazing, enticing form. Be happy I haven't mentioned tasting anything. Oopsie. Too late. Fuck you.

And I tried to keep the imagery less than NC-17. Be happy.


I am beginning to feel the comfort of heading into the kitchen for cleaning. This is a very sad state of affairs when the highlight of my day is walking away from the fucking overly difficult morning sitting here and into the kitchen to clean. Have I mentioned how pathetic I am? Oh, and one other tidbit I wanted to ask... Do I come across as feeling sorry for myself? I hope not. There is a big difference between self-pity and red anger. Believe it. Anger is beneath EVERY fucking thing I say or do. If the kitchen brings me comfort, so be it. Once again... Shut up.

1116 and the routine is finished. And yes, the kitchen was nice combined with a modified White Russian and the third show. Underneath? Turmoil. Completely depressed.

The chemistry is going to drive me mad, and soon. I can't seem to extricate imagery of the closet doors and smiling faces from my head no matter the distractions or effort. I have been relegated to an existence driven by dreams thanks to the past. Splendid. As of yet I haven't flipped a switch despite years of threats. Maybe I have concluded that once flipped, the resulting situation will be permanent. I've had enough of that word on the site. As for the rest of the day, I have no idea. This show is not the reason for my camera sitting on the dining table. The object is the other one. Once the tripod is set up in the living room, all bets are off. I'll be nearer to the basement than ever. The need for the camera is not chemistry, however. It is my condition resulting from too much fantasy and a disdain for reality. I do not have reason to consider reality as satisfying any longer. The effort has been exhausting.

This is a finite process. I can take only so much before I go away for good. Reaching and trying for this long has taken its toll, honestly, and each day shows me nothing new. The little comforts are shrinking as quickly as my outlook. Black future. I have little doubt that one day I'll be found and that will be that.

Realism is gone.

Ok, so I broke out the camera along with the 17-35 and battery grip. God damn is the whole thing heavy. I had forgotten. No wonder I have to use a slingshot while outside the house. Anyway, I shot several stills of the show and realized I can only expect decent clarity if the programming is in high definition. Older resolutions force a slow shutter, meaning lots of blur. I can't have that. So, with this setup I will await her scenes rolling around and then shoot when necessary. The cable box used to clear the on-screen graphics seconds after a pause, but unfortunately the streaming media interface does not. That means I have to capture while the motion is active. Ugh. This is not going to be easy. The upside is there will be amazing, large images of her if I can release the shutter while there is no movement. Very exciting. Albert's shirt is fucking awesome. Right up my alley. 'He's in no position to go-inta-de unknown not knowin'. Love. It. I mentioned his outfit and goofy line back in the third 'Arina' mess.

Ah, there's Vic again. Every time I see him all sorts of shit floats to the surface of the soup in my head. Some good, some bad, but all very stirring. Unlike John who is a gangster, this guy makes an honest living, works hard and supports his family, and in the end makes all the other guys look like shit. I cannot mention the downside because it relates to something I overheard years ago which pushed me to read about the series in question, and that in turn led to some words all in a row that I would prefer to have never heard. The dialog and conversation were completely understandable, though. I get it. Vic is a great character. His image -- believe it or not -- assists in the damaging chemical thinking. Nothing against him. Everything churns and few with whom I am familiar are at fault. Most of this shit existed prior to knowing anyone who is in my life now.

Another acceptable morning, I suppose. The whole thing is fucking sad, though. I never saw something like this coming. Never. Years ago I figured everything would be fine for whatever reason. I didn't know there would be a microscope above my head during the later years.

0647 on Saturday morning. A year ago this would have felt very different. Today shall not seem pressing like a weekday. I try to treat the weekend as if it is a break from the routine. I'll still care for stuff, though. I need everything in decent order so the focus can shift.

The camera work yesterday went into the afternoon. I worked with and without the flash and hood, tried a diffuser to see what kind of effect it may have on a dimmed room, and eventually realized there is nothing better than shooting the screen raw with a fast lens. Some of the shots of James came out fantastic. I will probably mess around with it later this morning when things are finished.

This is not the first time I've shot images of the television screen. That crap dates all the way back to the Mojo Girl. Actually, I recall during the early eighties I tried to photograph two different female actors with my Kodak Instamatic, believe it or not. Sound like me? There was no Internet or smartphone to instantly access information about media. The only option at the time -- and I was a teenager -- was to await seeing one of them on the television and then grab the little camera. Even way back then I was trying to secure some information about those females I really liked. I remember their names, too. Heh. One was in a magazine which I found later while overseas in the service. My compulsion to have still images of those women was a precursor to some of what can be found here within these pages, all the way back to fifteen. The idea is akin to seeing someone on the television and then immediately heading to the phone or computer to look up her name, height, etc... Not a good thing to have that much information at my fingertips. One second I see a face up there and a few moments later her face appears right here. The beginning was long ago, yet I am no different now. I have done other things, too...

I covertly shot an image of a cashier at the big electronics store during the NASA period, coinciding with my then-new fascination with Asians. They were all over those stores due to the owner's commitment to employing a 'multinational workforce' to match the valley. Well, my coworker and I were shopping for supplies and I spied her behind the massive counter. Moments later? Click. I still have the image, although it looks like crap due to the technology at the time as opposed to now. That event took place during the 1236 period and just after I picked up my first camera-equipped phone. And I can't recall which phone or when I captured her. Fuck... Whatever. Anyway, the point is that the idea of grabbing an image or photograph of a woman goes way the hell back to the early eighties. Can't locate the image of the cashier on this machine, though. Too bad.

0810 and I am left to the house for the next few hours.

Ooh-fa, shit going on that I am helpless to change. Ugh.

I removed the image of Leigh in favor of Viki due to the problems in my head. The expression on her face in the second image just kills me. Not just the nose, but the way she is looking out to the sea. I used to do the same years ago while in Moss Beach. Many years ago, actually. Sometimes I had to drive there from the other side of the bay just to stand at the tide pools with water all around. Something about feeling connected to the rest of the world via that water. The sensation is difficult to articulate. Looking at her -- and yes, of course she is a model at a photo shoot -- reminds me of the way I stood there on the rocks and felt that the future was wide open and full of possibilities. Feeling small on this planet is very easy while near the largest body of water in existence, although to say 'small' was not a negative. Quite the reverse... It meant the world was huge and ripe for exploration. Well, I don't really feel as such any longer, and that thought despite being less than half a mile from the very same ocean at this very moment. Whatever. Going out there again will probably accomplish nothing. I don't feel hope anymore.


Corrado doesn't even have four matching chairs at his breakfast table. Realism, alive and well. And he continues to have trouble with the kitchen sink drain. The little things...

Almost time to rise and care for the routine. This entry is going nowhere, anyway. I keep thinking and saying the same shit over and over while searching for something different. So far, so bad. 0920 and I just secured several very high resolution images of Viki, meaning expect to see more of her as the Gral entries are formed. As of yet I have only published one and this is number three. I hesitate because sometimes I'll gush a bunch of shit and then change my mind about broadcasting. Time will tell... Maybe.

1149 and what? I don't know what to do. The routine is finished and I had a snack and boiled some potatoes for later. Very exciting. I also shot a few more images with the living room shade up to see if I can eliminate any glare on the television without darkening the room. I need to keep the aperture wide open to minimize blur and speed the shutter. I guess once I upload everything to Bridge I'll learn if my efforts have bore fruit. The plan is to finalize settings and the shooting position in the room before key episodes occur. I don't like to run the series out of order. I am currently in mid-third season so there is some time to get the setup in order.

The fact is most of the time I am preoccupied by the chemistry dreaming and physiological shit to move in any direction beyond the norm. Nothing is easy because I've made it difficult, plus the knowledge that I am not solely at fault here keeps pushing me down when I could otherwise be rising. Ugh. At least I didn't fucking fail this morning. Days have passed and I am very proud of that, although I know at some point everything will slam me hard enough to be set back. Don't want that, ever. No choice. I am swirling in a blackened sea and watching unreachable options in the distance. 'Fill my vast sails of ruin; steer me toward the deep end.'

Wow. Even sitting right here eight feet from the screen and using the 17-35 I was able to capture her several times in great detail. Imagine if I framed the television from a better position. The third season is haphazard, yet the opening of this episode is amazing with the black hair and lighting. I'll have to transfer images to the computer and take a look. God damn, this is so ridiculous. I don't care. I knew the basement was my destiny. Fuck it. One step down at a time. The basement awaits my deviant sense of beauty. She told me there was nothing wrong with the way I felt, but keep in mind that girl was a touch out of balance Herself.

1401. Lunch out of the way. I moved some things around the garage and organized the dry goods a bit. Lunch made a mess of my clean kitchen so in a little while I'll head in there and polish it again. There is a fairly disgusting exchange happening on the screen right now. Oh, and there is a very famous entertainer long before she was a household name. Blonde and gorgeous, young and bright. Now? She is a giant in the music industry.

Jularana means no recovery. The later hours are much easier on the body but not so much for the mind. I still see the faces, closet doors and those guys working on the power lines along Sunol Boulevard as the road winds through the trees. Sunshine. Can't remember where we were headed, although one possibility is back toward the grandparents' house. Maybe somewhere for lunch. I see all of it, including way the fuck back during the Eastridge period and the wondrous late nights. Wondrous. Not long after, I went to work for the carburetor shop and used to meet up with both her and her sister in the big mall. The future was enormous. We were happy. There can be no repeat, of course, yet still I yearn for anything resembling that period. I can't fucking help it because the present leaves much to be desired, for sure. No recovery. No reverse. No hope. The jularana is at the limit. Arina was a name. Jularana is my life.

And walking across the background is something to see. Basket case. It never ends.

Annabella again, wearing an absolutely stunning fucking outfit, from the boots to the overcoat. I never really thought of her in terms of desire or sex, likely due to her face. Not that she isn't gorgeous, just because while on screen her eyes telegraph so much emotion that anything physical becomes lost. Even after all these years, too. Beautiful woman, just not on THAT side of the coin. Never, in fact. Like Jamie, in a way, I guess. Feelings which do not translate as expected. I don't even know why I brought her up. Maybe it was the coat. This reminds me of a line spoken by Ryan in the other show. Unfortunately, I can't say it because it dredges up bad feelings and memories. Not that what his character stated is wrong, only the way I feel about the overarching subject. Nothing sexual, either, so get your mind out of the gutter.

Sexual. Hmm. I say avoid it and yet look at Viki. What a maroon. Sixes and sevens.

The girl down the street was a symptom. Much like a few others, she was simply present at a meeting and forced my head to go around the world in eighty milliseconds. Well, she didn't do anything but speak and act kind. My brain did the rest. But the truth is that there have been many on one end of that situation, yet only very few on the other. Some in Nevada, even fewer here close to home. There was nothing present, I'm almost certain. The odds don't favor something special, to be honest. The Shilo thingy continues to swirl around because I never learned to deal with it. Coupled with the other shit? No chance of recovery. In late ten and early eleven, one in particular felt as if I had made it out of a cycle, but I soon learned that the situation was not as it appeared. Not lying or deception necessarily, just underlying problems which took away the potential for what I had sought. She was another symptom, although looking back now shows me a very different picture than the way I felt at that house. I was drawn like poison from a wound... Drawn all the way out of 'me' and then poured into a vat of wonder and desire more quickly than in the past. The first occasion in ten was not as severe, to be honest, and the imagery in my head was much tamer than now. This is going to get worse. The only upside is the little work conversation at the bar meant we will not be returning there for an installation. As much as I am dying to see her face again, I already know nothing good would come of it.

0716 on Sunday and here we go with the fucking arm again. Aching very deep inside, as if something is stressing the bones. Very uncomfortable, and almost every morning. And here we go with the decorations in the restaurant again. Every time this rolls around I recall the glow due to the mass of decorating done in her house. After having gone down memory lane with the images yesterday, my head is already halfway to the past and barely functioning. Third-season Jamie. She was in the lens yesterday. Yep, I shot images of the screen with my big camera. More to come. Anyway, looking through all that stuff yesterday made this current period seem much longer than ten years. Even images of the cats are funny to see because two of them were very little back then. Translated to further back? The glow feels ancient now. Even the shows are looking very dated, and they are all set in the fucking future.

The alone time today will be half chores and half camera. Maybe a little of the garage, but I don't know. As of yet there is no sunshine. Foggy all the way to the lower hills. I keep thinking about the girl over there. How did I come across? Is shit written all over my face like a teenager? I always think of myself as a very private person, yet there have been times when I had calculate behavior while around others and then learned later that I did not succeed in hiding anything. Maybe she knew I was all goo ga. Maybe that's the reason for the blown kiss. Maybe not. The odds do not favor anything positive, good, or uplifting when it comes to me. Maybe there was a vacuum where I saw wonder. I'll still be analyzing this shit hours, days, and weeks from now. Both good and bad that we did not return. I would die to see her face again, though. Die. And the other one, too. Yes, her again. I would die for much less, actually, and may very well in the coming years given the correct circumstances.


Ignore the title. Whatever relational analysis I've tried to make -- whether or not a moniker is employed for the purpose of creating a 'trade name' for a group of problems -- has failed in the past and is failing now. The title is merely more text on the screen, just larger. Forget it.

Well, except the first half. That is important.

Chemistry, physiology, and the blue dress. I just don't understand why everything has to be this way. Unfair? I don't know, but unpleasant, to be sure. Lately something has been held back and I don't know why, although that probably means I'll be fucking slammed in the face very soon. I have no reason to believe anything good will ever happen again. Not over here. No reason. Don't argue, either. That helps no one. I keep seeing those fucking images. They will not go away, and the longer I consider this situation the more weakened I become. Maybe the road trip should be adjusted to the south so I can visit the Sea again. That place always helps for one reason or another. Maybe because I fucking love it there. Anything to get this shit out of my fucking head for a while. I can't stand it. Had I known in advance that this part of my life would be so depressing and hurtful, I would not be sitting here right now.

I have to get this shit OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD.

But I can't.

I realized yesterday that once the morning moves along toward ten or so and I pour my kitchen cocktail, some of the shit becomes pushed back pretty far. It doesn't typically return until the following morning, yet still the thoughts are still present. Only one part seems to go away and the booze helps. No, not like an alcoholic getting a bit of a fix, more like enough mental relaxation to keep those demons at bay and assist in clear thinking. Well, clear-er, anyway. Better than nothing. The morning booze also tends to diminish all that fucking imagery and cloud reference which can cripple me at times. Just months ago something terrible happened and I keep hearing it over and over, only to research the problem later to find reinforcement. John's image returned nearly at the same time and I ended up combining the two and wishing for the ability to literally eliminate the fucking root cause. Not me, others. Society. A pile of shit in need of disposal in the worst possible manner. Oof... Just now I felt a little something and thought it might have been a tremor. The ceiling fans will tell me, but it was nothing. Yikes. Anyway, the morning cocktail has two positive effects, I suppose, even though I already know everything will return soon enough. Chemistry and physiology are already beating on me relentlessly. I don't need that phrase piled on top. 0915 and I have descended once again. The last of the coffee, too. I'll be pouring the vodka very soon. I don't know what else to do anymore, but at least I know the thinking will be eased in a little while. Every day. Every FUCKING day.

Why do I try anything at all? The demons will always return.

1211 and some stuff is finished. Dry cleaning is in process. Very exciting.

Problems, chemistry, a head full of everything impossible, and this mellow existence floating along as if I am in a small boat adrift within a large sea. That image conjures thoughts born of a song -- one I will not name, of course -- back when I used to dream of that left turn to anywhere. The song lyrics inspired pictures of a man in that boat, moving along the foggy water toward an unknown destination. Very little hope, like right now. He was searching, endlessly, for something... Anything to bring a moment's peace. The chemistry, closet doors, that image of light green, and then the other one which quickly became a focal point of wonder. I'll never forget any of it. Everything is forming a summation, and one which I didn't believe possible at this point in life. Carmela is pissed off but still gorgeous. I cannot say enough about Edie's amazing and groundbreaking performance here. Unreal. All the respect. I would give anything to be standing behind the camera when these scenes were shot so long ago. Damn. I'll try to avoid an industry tirade again.

I might cut off all my hair today. To be honest, I've been completely sick of it for a very long time, but as of yet I've not felt pissy enough to actually shave it. Today may be that day. My boss's girl cuts his hair quite often and does a good job. Maybe I'll contact him and see if she can cut mine. I'm tired of watching what was once a mane most of the way to my belt become broken and wiry, much shorter. The downside is much of my self-esteem has been tied up with my hair. Once gone, I'll probably recoil quite a bit. The way I figure, the hair being gone could be one less pain in my ass. Ah, fuck it. I don't know shit anymore. Just a thought.

Minutes later...

She is willing to cut my hair. Awesome. As I said, good or bad on my insides, the comfort of not physically dealing with it anymore will be a plus.

Once again I fired up the Nikon and captured her at the beginning of the fourth season. A few are ok, but mostly her facial expressions leave a bit to be desired. The scene is a heated debate, so I didn't expect much. I wanted only to check exposure and clarity. Not bad so far. Lunch in the oven, dry cleaning finished. Afterward I will take care of the garbage business and see if anything in the refrigerator needs to go away. Super exciting, eh?

0629 on President's Day. Monday. Garbage trucks soon. Again with the arm. I don't know what to do so I'll do nothing.

Where do I go from here? Talking about housework, laundry? The pants again? Smiles? I imagined one of the smiling faces (one of two, that is) yesterday and fell down. I fell all the way down and am not one bit happy about the realization that this may be the way of my world until the end of time. Very sad, but then everything is as such these days. A while ago I suspected that my head was misplacing importance between different parts of life, but now I am not so sure. This may be my Achilles' heel, for crying out loud. It is bringing me down just like that arrow. All of the little pushes which have contributed to feeling the way I do in these late days have summed just like the paragraph above, effectively rendering me helpless to change the way I live my life or deal with difficulties. Every fucking time, too. You've seen it here quite a bit recently... Something I see and then the dreams and then the turmoil and torment, and then the bird. I am powerless. Shit from two fucking years ago still pushes me into a daily fucking corner. The one down the street. I keep seeing her in all black. I keep seeing her face smiling. The makeup. This fucking period -- long before seventeen and the entry with Ashley's near-twin -- has driven everything I have done. Work, restaurants of choice, music of choice, bars, activities, and even the work around the house. Take that little kid standing in front of an old console television with an Instamatic in order to see Barbi fucking Benton in a bikini and send him through to the future. The mold was set and released way back then. I am no different. Just a larger, more detailed television and a hell of a better camera. Those little details pushed me yesterday. This will happen again. All those years...


There was something wrong with my first cup of coffee. May have been the cream. I had to dump it and start over. Not good.

None of this makes sense, nor will it in the future. I'm tired of trying to figure things out; sick of the effort and the fact that I fall on my face no matter the circumstances. I never thought those lines would end up way out of my control and one of the most important factors in life while there are so many other aspects upon which I've tried to focus. Including over a thousand images of examples here probably didn't help, but I figured in the beginning that the text would be easier to understand with visual aids. Maybe I was wrong. Look at the images of Viki. Is she your average woman from down the street? Nope. I've spent years staring and trying to understand. Years. Thousands of images. And then back in twenty, what may have been the clincher when I realized after seeing the walnut girl's form that there was something bad attached to the obsession and I began to feel terrible about it. Unnatural, too, as if a person could look at the site and immediately conclude that what I seek is a conquest. I can't deny the issues. This is all so stupid now.

In the previous writeup I mentioned a little something which took place a few months ago. Well, to be honest I can't recall exactly when, but the date doesn't matter. What took place in my head was akin to a section being shut down for good and then the remaining parts trying to compensate. That moment crushed me and I have not even begun to stand back up again. I may never be able to stand fully upright, in fact. It was bad, sliced and diced in the space of one sentence and then left there to bleed. No one knows what all this means or what happened because as I sit here with my mediocre coffee and too-big pajamas, I will NEVER tell a soul, no matter what takes place from now until the end of everything. The sword has two edges. I don't want to say but am depriving myself of a possible resolution due to remaining mute about most shit. Well, I can live with that because the result is usually anger, and that helps me to get through each day without committing bloody murder on others or myself. Janice is a harpy. JoJo was there in the kitchen and looking stunning while standing next to Janice, the latter driving poor JoJo out. What a fuckin rig. I felt bad for Bobby. I believe I'd rather deal with that situation than the one I've been trying to understand. Honestly.

The right arm again. Only in the morning. I don't see how it could be caused by the way I sleep, though. I've been doing everything pretty much the same for a very long time, plus this has happened before with zero resolution. I never understood. Maybe there is something up there in the sky pushing me down. Heh. I already went over those lyrics.

Nothing will change. I suppose all that shit from the past is coming back and biting my heels as I attempt to move forward in life. The bullet from months ago is not as bad as some of the other crap I keep recalling, yet it doesn't help, either. It's partially related, I guess. There is the French girl again. How many times have I mentioned her on the site in recent months? Let's see... Sixteen including this paragraph. I guess a woman who I barely noticed years ago has grown on me. The number of mentions is also a clear indication that I have been watching this fucking series over and over for more than three years. Marvelous. Anyway, the word-bullet situation is beginning to rankle me more than seeing that woman's fucking amazing midsection, and that is saying quite a bit. Pissed off. The little comforts may have to expand but I don't even know where to begin such a venture. I am still drawing breath, though. Good or bad?

I may as well return to the cauliflower. Last night I was thinking about those evenings with the garage all lit up and the music playing, typically a few times per year when my neighbor is out there grilling or whatever. Usually it's an impromptu thing, but the weather lately has been so cold and windy there is no way to stand around outside for very long before being driven back indoors. Anyway, the point is I realized on the last occasion that I prefer to remain inside my garage 'creation' with my devices and music rather than speaking with anyone else. Anyone. The affair typically boils down to me wanting to enjoy all I've built and remaining away from people. Sometimes I don't know why I did all that work out there because most of the time all it does is attract other people. They never remain inside the garage very long, though, due to my general music choice. Oof... The French girl again believes she is getting a 'belly'. Um... Ok. Whatever you say, dearie. Anyway, my preference of being alone apparently extends to the space I decorated and agonized over for more than eight years. In the beginning I wanted it to be enjoyable for when we have guests, but there haven't been any of those since the last actual party more than seven years ago. I have to avoid talking about that too much because it will only make me angrier. The garage may be all for me, to be sure. I always have the option of broadcasting music that I already know no one else will enjoy. And then out they go, all the way.

The garage realization has stemmed from everything else, believe it or not. You'd think the music and colored lighting would not have anything to do with my troubles, but that is incorrect. As time passes and I become overly lost in very difficult thoughts and dreams, the issues will undoubtedly end up on my fucking face for all to see, or possibly come out in my speech patterns. I've seen it before. Well, I can't have that, so the next time there are people around and the garage is open for business, I'll be holed up behind a few things and away from others; as it must be. If I recall correctly, the last gathering out there found me doing exactly that... Hiding, for lack of a better term. Maybe the cold wind is a good thing after all.

Listening to the French girl speak is beautiful, but hearing her brother do the same has become rather grating. Not the accent, but his tone. The actor did a great job of conveying his character's personality, too. Just a few moments on screen and you know him quite a bit. Awesome. Still an asshole, but a good actor.

Monday. This is the holiday so I will not be alone. The usual, I suppose, and then I have to head over to the bar to touch base with my boss about possible upcoming stuff. I'll pop into the market next door, too, and hopefully return to the bar without something stuck to my brain. It's worn the hell out these days. That trip north will not be until this afternoon. Between now and then I have things to accomplish, I guess. The wind is still howling outside. I'll have to work in here unless I can tool around the garage with at least one door closed. Damn.

Every entry begins with a topic (or more than one), and then ends up heeled over and wavering by the middle. This is no different. Over and over and over... The same shit. Once in a while there is something different, but don't count on it. The two main issues in my life have still not been identified here because I just cannot say it to the world. None of it. Neither problem can be identified because if people know I will be driven to live in a hole in the ground, avoiding contact with human beings entirely. I just can't have that. So, given those issues coupled with a deep-seated need to hide everything but compelled to speak, I end up going around the fucking barn over and over like an idiot, basically saying nothing important from one line to the next.

This one is finished. The next will be the same. Tune in next time, or don't, for you already know of the content long before it is published.