March 1st, 2024 7:52am pst

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

The Gate Vane

 read ( words)

"'Check the gate!'

Monday morning on the heels of some decent time last night. Decent. That is all I get anymore. Jamie is all down this page because I can’t stop gushing about the goddess of the universe. I just can’t fucking stop. She will be here in perpetuity. Live with it. At least the nude models are no longer present.

Check the gate. Find it. Check. Life is gated. The film plane must remain clear of debris. Wait... Film? I am reminded of a production company named ‘Think Film’ back a million fucking years ago when I was a person. I joked with the director on and off all day because they were shooting on digital media. He just laughed. Check the gate. Think of a noise gate. Stifled. Sharpened. ‘Crack!’ There are no flies in the whiskey. There is no blood on the cauliflower. The gate has separated one part of me from another. They are still connected, yet the processing does not allow for me to fully understand what is taking place when I think or speak. There is a break in everything. Before and after, but no ‘during’. It is gated. Check the gate.

Monday. What does this mean? Nothing. Well, I don’t have to drive to the city for some days, so I guess that’s a good thing. The mornings will be all mine, for whatever that’s worth. I’ll be sitting here for the duration. I don’t usually know what else to do. The advancement of this house which began just after I stopped working full-time has been stifled – much like the way I am almost constantly gated by the fucking vane – and I don’t know if it will ever move back into production without some cataclysmic change in the way I think. I can’t say that I don’t care, though I often type those very words, because I actually do. Motivation has waned. Ambition has all but disappeared. I’ve been doing the minimum each day and damned little else. Oh, the cabinets came along and that project is nearly finished, but the point of all that was not work, it was storage. Besides, I really enjoy building things. I generally like Monday morning because the weekends can be somewhat convoluted and this period each week is very peaceful in contrast. The only game I play these days resets on Monday morning, the garbage starts off the week empty, and I don’t usually have anywhere to go, unless it’s something very simple. The hour is early. I am waiting for the late gate. Check the fucking thing. Late gate? Late vane? Gated? I don’t know.

I saw her one time from enough of an angle to notice her thighs were thin, but that is in contrast to other times when she appeared to be quite a bit more muscular. Sometimes I just can’t tell because everything ends up distorted for one reason or another. I try, but that is not enough. Perhaps the clothing is making a difference. There’s only been one true vision of her when everything was pretty fucking clear, and I can still see her shape from many months ago. My head wrapped itself around her and did not let go. I couldn’t believe my fucking eyes. She has one of the narrowest waistlines I’ve ever seen in person. Above that? I’d rather not try to venture a guess. When I saw her standing there, my mind traveled back in time to the girl at the car wash and the massive disparity between her midsection and chest. Her description was the first I’d attempted and it still resides in a very special place in my heart. I worked on that composition roughly eighteen years ago, too. Did I ever mention that I saw her a second time, perhaps two weeks or so after the car wash? I passed her on the way out of the supermarket. What a magical moment. Anyway, the topic of this paragraph has been gated by the vane and I cannot go into further detail or the fucking thing will hit me in the face. Just know that I saw so much that I still don’t understand. The nature of seeing her standing there has caused so much trouble and turmoil inside me that I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I want and need to see more, but at the same time I sincerely hope I never do. She would represent the end of everything. I can’t have that, so the battle inside me will continue. I can barely talk about it, as well. None of this is good by any stretch of the word. The girl at the car wash was very different and I can’t even say why. The reason would also be trouble. Ugh. Check the gate. I’ve said too much.

Monday. Hmm. Check the gate. Check the vane. Check my fucking head.

Check something, Jesus. And then leave me the hell alone.

At some point I’ll do something else this morning. I still have a bit of coffee and my show over there on the right-hand display (complete with Jamie’s absence, but Cara is driving me in-fucking-sane right now), but I’ll tire of this eventually. The housework has to be completed by a reasonable hour or I’m not happy. I am gated. The vanes are killing me very quietly. Slowly, too. Killing me. Another shot upside the head will occur soon, I’m sure.

One hour later. Half the routine is finished and I have the first of two laundry loads running. Cocktail time. I need to get that fucking form out of my head before I flip the fuck out. I can still see her from months ago. The woman from yesterday is beginning to fade, thank the maker. Check the gate. From here forward, I guess I’ll focus upon the laundry and dry cleaning, and then perhaps move a few more items into the dining room cabinets. If I can get that little waist and bouncing chest out of my brain, I may actually do something worthwhile. If not, this day will be like so many others... Gated for all time; fucked over completely; another path to the end of all things. The vane will slice my throat wide open. The thoughts that enter my head when I consider her appearance are nothing I can mention here. Just know at present there is more raw desire attached to her than anyone else. The reasons are many, but she is not the one who can make all the bad go away. That is another person. And the second half of the sixth season just began, and right out of the ‘gate’ is the goddess of the fucking universe looking more beautiful than heaven itself (whatever that place may look like) and my heart is doing somersaults over and over. Jamie is above all things in the world, past and present. I feel more for her every fucking day regardless of whether or not the program is running. God damn... This is one of the most unhealthy aspects of my entire existence. Jamie’s fucking fingers are more beautiful than most complete women I’ve seen. Ugh. This is so fucked. Where was I? Ah... Trying to extract that girl from my head so I can be productive. Tall order. Check the gate. I may just fail like most days, but then again, does anything I do or think matter anymore? Gate vane. Gated. Squished. Squashed. I am beyond repair. Everything is impossible. Not even a moment of comfort will help because it will disappear so quickly that it may as well never happened in the first place. Marvelous. Check the gate again. No debris, please.

I was able to take care of the other half of the routine without disturbing the cats. I know how much they enjoy the peaceful, quiet nature of the house on weekdays. I try to help because this is their entire world (sort of like me). From here forward, I’ll nickel and dime the rest of the laundry. I can already feel myself slipping off the edge this morning. I can’t have it, but may be completely powerless anymore. Caring is not a keyword.

My stuff is almost finished, thankfully. The level of ambition I feel at times is just not there right now. Moreover, the passage of time today seems to be very slow for some reason. There are days that fly by and I don’t know why either situation comes to pass. The next few hours will likely go nowhere, much like the direction of my brain. I feel so much less capable of accomplishing anything lately as opposed to a few years ago. My diminishing condition cannot be denied. The future has been gated... No compression. This is an aspect of the lower threshold (noise floor); the good has been made to disappear from the scale. All of the good, mind you. Check the gate. Anyway, the rest of the day will require very little work on my part. Some dinner preparations and a few more items from the laundry will comprise the afternoon. I don’t feel very well today. This happens more often than not. Compression will be far worse and is coming soon enough.


When I saw her that day my brain exploded. It really did. Up to that point in time, much of what I saw was veiled in one fashion or another, but that one occasion confirmed my suspicions and sent me flying. That was last year, too. Not a day goes by that I don’t recall her standing there with every fucking line right in front of my eyes. Well, more lines than usual, anyway. My mind has a focus. I took in more than the focus. I knew some of the information. I just never realized the rest would catch me upside the head like a fucking vane. She has not been gated. I’ve been gated. Relegated, too. Make of this shit what you will. I can’t remember feeling that much desire within mere seconds. This is very bad. Someone had better check the gate before the whole shiaree explodes from some errant material floating around in the works. Check the fucking gate. No, the other one. I am gated. The ‘up’ is gone. I need compression. I would give anything to see her again in the same outfit, but at the same time... That is the last fucking situation I need repeated. If I had any sense at all, I’d stay home all the time. The market yesterday was a prime example of the problems awaiting me beyond the front door. As I often say, there is more. This is as far as I can go, however. The operation of my mind the last few years has changed dramatically from earlier in life, even as recently as the beginning of the pandemic. Yes, it’s that fucking bad. My days, taken as a whole, are like a wound without care. The passage of time knows no healing.

Check the gate.

Have I mentioned that I was ‘there’? Gated to the nth degree. LIfe has been gated by the latest vane. Splendid. The floor is very quiet, although my hearing levels and accuracy have diminished so much in the last few years that the gate action may not even be necessary. Whatever... Gated. Check the fucking gate already.

Tuesday morning feels more positive for some reason. Maybe it’s just the free time, quiet and coffee combining to ease the difficulty in my head. The quiet is not the floor; the floor has been reduced (disregarded). Gated. The quiet house having little to do with the floor is analogous to the relationship between the comfort of sitting in this chair and that which I so badly need. Read that again. I haven’t fully grasped this shit.

Juliette was the first, followed by Ashley. Melanie was not the same. Oh, she tried to help me plenty, yet all I could think about was climbing into her blouse. I did my best to avoid being disrespectful the entire time, although the inside of my head was all wrapped around her beauty. Melanie was very kind and took my advances in stride because she actually cared. Juliette was in turmoil; Ashley wanted to enjoy our time together without any issues hanging over her head. That girl was so young that I’m certain she simply had less background to consider. Juliette was more than a decade older, for sure, and had been dealing with a blast of shit prior to meeting me at the bank. Melanie was unlike the other two. By the time I spoke with her, I was carrying not only the shit that drove me to run away, but losing Juliette after feeling that I could not live without her next to me. We held each other, and held each other up. Ashley bowed to my wishes and needs, so I did my best to lavish all of the care on her that I was able at the time. Our days flew by like leaves in a windstorm. All of the days did, really. Time was all fucked up back then, and that is likely the reason Andrea and I spent so many days glued to each other. We both knew that once we split, all of reality would come back in full force. Neither of us wanted it. There was no gate during those years, only compression. The top of everything felt as if it was constantly being sliced off because the background of each step was heartache, yet still the gate did not exist. The floor was clean and quiet without any help whatsoever. The gradient between then and now has never felt larger or more dramatic.

I have been comparing the last decade with all of the damaging trips to the goblet and other destinations, up to and including when I made a last-ditch effort to recreate such magic in searching for Eleanor one more time when I felt the strongest need for comfort and understanding. When I returned from Vegas after spending additional time with her – and a few others for good measure; the ports were overly necessary and the storm raging – I fell down so fucking hard that I calculated it would be the last time in my entire life that I’d be where I needed. The underlying doom that I felt during every fucking trip increased ten-fold in the knowledge that my chances of finding that type of connection again had all but disappeared. Now I am a full thirteen years older and completely miserable. The vanes have taken their toll and are nowhere near finished destroying me. Check the gate. I miss each and every one of those beautiful souls. I miss them all the time. Perhaps I would not be in such bad shape right now had I never gone on those fateful trips. Better to have... What? Bullshit. The past will always be called into question because of the present. Anyone who claims to have let go of the past is fucking lying through their teeth. There is no trust remaining; no faith. There are only vanes.

I don’t know what I’ll be doing later today. I may cook some chicken that can’t sit in the fridge too much longer, and then simply heat it at dinner time. I will probably have to visit the market, too. I need cream for tomorrow’s coffee, and possibly some vegetables to go along with whatever I make tonight. The small market could be a good choice unless there is a fucking goddess behind the register. I’ve seen a handful of beautiful faces working in that store. The vision from the market the other day still jabs at me from time to time and I believe the odds of seeing something along those lines at the smaller store are fewer. Heh... Lines. Whatever. Anyway, the smaller store usually requires less time, especially during weekdays. I can also continue moving items from the old pantry to the dining room cabinets. I didn’t do any of it yesterday because I lost my way soon after lunch. At least I finished all of the laundry and dry cleaning. Better than nothing. This office could benefit from some attention, too. I’ve been neglecting it for days.

Half of the daily stuff is out of the way. The other half will have to wait until the two emperors of the universe (read: cats) are off the tree and out of the spare bedroom. Until such time, I’m planning to sit here and think as best I can. The booze next to me will either help or hinder the process. I am unsure and don’t care. Check the fucking gate.

I miss all of them, and more. Even the last time I was in Vegas – a bit less than five years ago – the magic was apparent. We relaxed, gallivanted all over the place, and visited some of my favorite places, not to mention one of the best dinners of my entire life at Stripsteak. That evening began with being dropped off at the pyramid, a walk through the north entrance and past Aurora – one of the most stirring fucking locations in memory – and then a stroll across the bridge and into restaurant row. I’ve probably brought that night up here, too, because it was first-class from beginning to end. We dined, laughed, enjoyed some of the highest-level food imaginable along with impeccable service, and eventually wandered back to Aurora to sit at the bar and enjoy the atmosphere. The entire time frame was fucking incredible and I felt right at home in those places due to experience (and the vast sums of money I dropped in the past). Ah, shit... Another fateful reference to something more damaging than a nuclear missile striking the roof of this house, and right there on the display. Fuck me. Is there no end to it? Did society have a hand in ruining me rather than just the two shit situations? Marvelous. Anyway... Where was I? Oh, yes. Vegas five years ago. I am still pleased that we dined at Stripsteak after the Delmonico a day or two earlier because the latter was rather disappointing, and that after years of me having blown up the reputation of that restaurant. Regardless, the trip was wonderful and brought me back to those periods I lament every single fucking day. I will probably never be there again due to too many reasons, but at least I have the memory of that final blast into joyous territory. Blast? Nah... We are done with that shit. The gate is at issue now. In any case, and despite my difficulties, I miss too much sometimes and everything is so different now that I believe the end of a striking era has passed into history. Sad. Everything is just fucking sad now. If Ashley could hold me for a little while and tell me everything will be ok, perhaps the future will stop appearing black. She’s gone, like all the rest. I still love each and every one of those beauties. All of them. Believe it. If I get the chance to visit the goblet again, the high point will probably be nothing more than an agreeable dinner instead of real comfort. Again... Sad. I’d give the remainder of life for one fucking day of my choice. Just one. Check the gate. And then? Check it again. The bottom is falling away.


I still have yet to receive a reply regarding the watch being in limbo. I can’t take action until the estimated delivery date is passed, so in the meantime I’ve sent two messages to the seller in the hope of learning if there is a problem. The first was four days ago. Nothing. Nearly five hundred dollars have changed hands and something had better develop soon. As I said before, I am not concerned with a refund or resolution because past experience has taught me that the site will take care of either. I just don’t like being ignored. I’ve gone over the idea of being passed over, disregarded, and living unheard, and the transaction status is only exacerbating such a stance. The seller needs to get back to me, and very soon. There is already enough shit in my head. I don’t need this, nor do I really need the watch. It’s a luxury and can be ignored or replaced very easily. If much more time passes before it arrives or I am refunded, I may not feel the same as I did while placing the order eight fucking days ago.

Along similar lines, I contacted a local business three days ago by inquiring about their services and have yet to receive a reply. As of late, electronic communication is mimicking recent in-person conversations. Not good. I can only take so much of being fucking ignored. I will spit in a figurative sense, and trust me when I say no one wants that kind of reaction.

On the upside, I ordered a box of very fine candy earlier this morning. No issues there. Heh. And that brings me back to the eighties when Ethel M Chocolates was in business in Las Vegas. Their alcohol assortments were sold at Caesar’s Tahoe and my grandparents always purchased those unique candies when we visited the resort. Some years after they sold the cabin in Meyers (just to the southwest of the stateline), I took a trip to Vegas by car that included a tour of the Ethel M factory and retail store. Those chocolates were the bee’s knees and demanded a high price, upward of forty dollars for twelve fucking ounces. Did I pass it by? Nope. I rolled home through the central valley with a styrofoam cooler containing a few assortments. That was the last time I enjoyed their impeccable candies. Ugh. The reminder calls forth a memory that I really don’t fucking need right now.

My hands are cold. I was able to take care of the rest of the daily routine because the cats ventured to the kitchen for a snack and some water. As they were absent from the spare bedroom for a few minutes, I opted to open the window, so as the day progresses they can see and smell the outside world. That also means the hold on my heating system must be canceled until the late afternoon. Check the gate. Check it again. Keep checking. My hands will remain cold until I do something physical.

Lunch is out of the way. The seller I mentioned claims that weather is the issue with shipping. I do not see such a possibility because the carrier is not in possession of the package. Also, the images displayed on the auction were taken from another business’ web site and I do not believe they ever had the fucking thing in the first place. Some sellers will complete a transaction without having possession of a certain item, and then once the buyer pays, they will seek one on the open market. I’ve asked them to refund my money. There is no fraud as of yet, only some apparent deception. No big deal. I’ve dealt with this sort of thing in the past. I am currently awaiting another response.

The candy was a much smoother transaction. Heh.

I am going to venture to the garage and continue to reorganize the cabinets. The sun is shining, and though the air is quite cool, I should be able to work out there for a while without being uncomfortable. One more load of items has been relocated to the dining room. A little at a time, I guess.

The hour is later and I did exactly what was intended, plus a bit more. I brought more items into the house and eliminated a large cabinet that was atop another that I built for the laundry area. It was under too much load, which skewed the door hinges. That was a clue that I’d overloaded the setup. Well, it’s empty and I relocated everything that lived inside. Very nice. A little more time allowed me to straighten up the area. Now I am tired and will sit here with this shit until the time comes for making dinner preparations. Those will be easy because the meal I planned is one of my specialties. Not terribly exciting or complex, but really good. I am looking forward to working in the kitchen again with my family in the background. Oh, and a drink next to me for reasons of good form. I’ll probably move into the kitchen in about two hours.

Something stirring may happen but I can’t be certain. If so, it will be followed by questionable behavior, daydreaming, and all manner of carnal thoughts. I can’t go into detail about any of it, though. Not good. Not good at all. This is what I’ve become after all these years.

Check the gate! No debris, please.

Blanca smashed poor AJ’s heart, but damn was she gorgeous sometimes. You know... Dark this, dark that, big eyes, the whole shitaree. His condition worsened very quickly, too. That was a bad one, for sure. As for the possible wondrous thingy, never mind. Nothing happened. I was hoping, though. I’ve become so weak that the tiniest event stirs me to the core, after which I become very disappointed in everything. I don’t need any more of that shit. The gate vane is wreaking havoc on my insides and ability to function during normal day-to-day life. I am more easily distracted than ever before. The only relation to the couple on the show is that she was beautiful when the season was shot, and beauty has a profound effect upon my coping skills. It is a negative.

Maybe I should head into the kitchen early. I can cut and cook all of the chicken and then combine it with everything else later. Sitting here is not... Ah, fuck. There she is again with those EYES. God damn do I ever love her. I’ve already pulled a hundred some-odd screenshots in hopes of capturing her unique beauty, but none of them ever come out as clear or bright as when the video is running. Ugh. Where was I? Oh, the kitchen. It has become almost the only place I ever feel any joy or satisfaction in life, and that kind of fact is fucking pathetic. It really is. I go in there during the mid-morning to clean and polish everything with the television keeping me company – that is also most often the time that I pour my drink so the ice has time to fully chill the alcohol – and the process of cleaning brings me a sense of comfort. In the past, I’d blast music from the office or through the mighty MDRs for entertainment as I worked, but since adding the television back at the beginning of the pandemic, my comfort level is much better than with music playing. My friends are up there every fucking day of every week. Think of almost four years of such a scenario. I’ll move into that room very soon. Pathetic.

‘The truth is... This therapy is a jerkoff. You know it and I know it.’
‘I actually don’t know it, but please continue.’
‘It’s a jerkoff.’
‘Yes. You’ve said that.’

That conversation opener is fucking priceless and I love it. Her sarcasm during the last line is so awesome that even after more than a decade of watching, it still catches me upside the head just like the first time. I just love it.


Get me some O'Mat gri tea and piviots, please.

I’ve been sitting here for the last couple of hours completing taxes. Not mine, though, because I need not file according to the IRS’ online questionnaire regarding income and filing requirements. Nice, that stuff. This will be the first time I haven’t filed federal taxes in forty years. Heh. Anyway, aside from a bit of a review, I believe everything is completed. I’ll probably file the forms electronically tomorrow or Friday, whichever is best. Today is Wednesday and I not only finished all the tax stuff, but my daily routine, too. There is nothing like sitting and working through financial information while drinking alcohol. Doing business from the home office does have its perks.

Thursday is here sans fanfare for the common webmaster. There's an old one for you.

Weekday drives to the City can be tedious. Business days mean more cars on the road, more people on the streets, and an increased possibility of seeing something, such as plum pants. Yep. Always something. At least I am home again after returning from the City and swinging into the market for a few things. I never ventured to either store yesterday, so a trip this morning was not only necessary, but very smooth thanks to the early hour. There was nothing to see there, anyway. Shopping this morning means I have the rest of the day to myself. I am going to make the most of it (hopefully). The plum pants will fade, but I saw her walking with flowing hair and bright eyes. Damage is always awaiting my arrival in other places. Check the gate. Something may be stuck in there. Pants, perhaps. Check it. And then check again, damn it. Maybe they are plum. Jesus, she was so slender. Ugh. Gated. The bottom is gone, for all intents and purposes. Gone. Wait until the compression comes along and ruins everything else. Not good. Anyway, all plums (and plump) aside, having all this time ahead feels pretty good right now. Hopefully, the feeling will remain unchanged and the clocks progress.I have a quick routine and then perhaps more relocation on tap for later, and the afternoon might be the ideal time to begin the big table-swap. We shall see if her pants let up their chokehold on my heart.

Since my package tracking still indicates that the carrier does not have possession of the item, I filed a claim. The process should not take more than a couple of days. Once refunded, I may opt to leave the funds alone for a while and think about everything. Plum. Lovely color. Right fucking there... All of it, and very likely exactly what develops inside my head all too often. Ugh. Check the gate again. Just fucking check it.

There are so many dancers featured or in the background of the club in this program with breast implants that sometimes I don’t even notice. Well, I’m not looking at the screen very often anyway, but every now and then I just try to understand the motivation for such an alteration. I’ve had discussions up the wazoo in the past and ended up with a bit more knowledge about the whole thing, yet still when I see something like that it actually makes me sad. I could never understand the pressure a woman (or girl) might feel in everyday life, and much of it is due to the devils of the world... The males. There is no changing my mind about that one. I gawk and comment to myself – both of which are wrong, yet at the same time there is nothing wrong with appreciation – meaning as male I am partly to blame for such pressure. Body image in this society is absolutely fucked for many people. Anyway, the point is I don’t end up all goo-ga over enlarged breasts. I feel other emotions. I am intimately familiar with dealing with ego and other male issues, but when it comes to the sheer weight of society on a woman’s shoulders, I can’t really comment. The dancers evolved over the seasons and some of them were unbelievably beautiful as the show headed into its sixth season, but I still feel sadness at times. The topic is a toughie. I don’t even know why I brought this up. Maybe I just think too much while sitting here. And then Jamie on the heels of all that crap. Splendid. I can still see the plum pants. Shit.

‘Check the gate!’


Later. Still Thursday.

After perusing the master page, I noticed the tracking tag and decided to take a look at the analytics, most notably site traffic for the last month. I don’t know what changed, but where I typically see around two dozen visitors, the number was up by four thousand percent; in the neighborhood of more than six hundred per week. The fuck? And the country with the most referred users is in eastern Europe. Did I write something in another language? I have no clue as to why the traffic numbers exploded, but whatever. I have never seen that many visitors in the history of the analytics attached to each page, and the process dates back more than twelve years. Unbelievable. Something happened, I guess. No idea. Anyway, once again I have to wait for the cats to vacate the spare bedroom before I can finish the morning housework. I don’t like to disturb them unless absolutely necessary. I love those little guys. I have the requisite cocktail here on the table, my show on the right-hand display, and a wide-open time frame until late afternoon. Very nice. I can watch the inclement weather from my office window. Could the mass of provocative images have finally hit a nerve? I’ll have to more fully research the data and try to learn what may have referred so many people to this little corner of the Internet. The whole situation is quite interesting. Perhaps they are checking the gate.

Today is ‘leap day’, the twenty-ninth of February. The number reminds me of Lori from high school. Today is her birthday, which means it was probably celebrated on the day before. Otherwise, she would have been perhaps four years old when I knew her. Heh. I can’t say the day feels special because nothing inside me has changed, nor is the world any different. The site numbers can’t be related, either, because that would just be far too strange to understand. I should have grabbed hold of Lori back then and not let go. She was so fucking sweet and gorgeous, with a huge mane of dark hair and some of the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. Damn. Was that another mistake? I look back and see a person who may have understood everything, and like all the others, she’s fucking gone. Well, not entirely gone. I found her on FB some time ago because I was bored and curious at the same time. No big deal. Ah, shit. There is the college professor I’ve had the hots for since this first aired. Jesus. I am such a basket case. She is a fictional character on a program which was shown almost seventeen years ago. What the fuck is wrong with me? I should have grabbed Lori. Maybe something would have changed inside me. What a maroon. Check the gate. Leap day will continue and then disappear for four years, like every other day. Nothing is different. Lori’s birthday? Does that mean anything? It did when I was much younger. Check the gate again. No debris. Tony is in Las Vegas in this episode and it reminds me of the way the southern end of the strip used to appear when I was there. Ouch. Right in the fucking heart.

The gate has removed the lower end of everything; the floor, as it were. And by ‘lower’, I do not mean the bad things. They are continually expanding and catching me upside the head. The floor. Just the floor. Compression may be next, but I am unsure of the proper path right now. One step at a time, as the AA people would say. Or is that ‘one day at a time’? The latter, I think. Whatever. The ‘lower end’ typically refers to the rotating assembly of an internal combustion engine, not audio. That is not the fucking floor. My entire life has been gated; narrowed. I’ve become focused more than ever before, and the point of that focus is very negative, elusive, and Christ-knows how many other descriptors could be attached. Check the gate. Do it now.


I can still see the plum pants. They stood out not only because of who was wearing them – her fucking form and lines and all the rest – but because of the color. In my experience, the color is rarer than black, gray or some of those crazy patterns. Plum pants. Plum. Plump? Fucking hell, anyway. I see her walking as I type these words, hair flowing behind like the mane of a wild Mustang. Damn. The vanes have really done a number on me. Believe it. I can’t check the gate. Others must do it. I am helpless. God damn did she have a form. Lines and pants and gait... Oh my. Fuck me.

The motherfuckers that sold me the watch had better respond in good time. I am the person that will fly to Florida just to show up in their shop and make a fucking stink. Heh. Never mind. I can’t do anything these days. I am still wondering what happened to cause so many page views in eastern Europe. That’s kind of crazy. The watch transaction is important, whereas the site statistics are fascinating. We shall see forsooth if one outweighs the other. I bought and paid for the watch ten fucking days ago. That is pathetic. Florida is not that far away, and the seller in question has an excellent reputation. Whatever the case, I am not particularly happy right now.

Plum. I need her to hold me. Um... ‘Her’. The sight of that woman is nothing more than another fucking clambake. Was that woman ‘her’? Is anyone? Jesus... I am such a basket case.

Blah, blah, blah... Beautifullegscakes.

The lines in question have been points of contention for so long that my feelings are old hat. This is an everyday thing regardless of whether or not I actually see an example. Every fucking day... I see or I don’t see,, and then my brain runs the gamut of feelings, from sheer fascination to desperate desire. To this day I still don’t know why those lines cause so much torment and turmoil. Lines. When I look at my phone, I see them (the most intimate, to be sure), and my imagination runs wild. A few years ago I had the unique pleasure of informing a woman that she carried the exact same form as many of the images on the site. Well, mostly the older stuff, but the point is the same. I told her and she did not get it, so I pulled out the phone, shot an image, and then revealed to her just how special her appearance was. Her reaction was fantastic, especially considering my feelings on the subject. Check the gate again. And then repeat. Make sure there are no issues. I am a victim of the gate vane, but it still must be watched at regular intervals. I am a victim. Check the fucking gate already. The lines are compound. Here, there, and then here again. They are compound, beginning at one point and then rising to the most intimate. The lines have become everything. Oh, the vanes are important, too, but the lines are unwavering and a topic that cannot be explained. The vanes? Fairly clear. I am affected by the vanes; enamored with the lines.

The size of this entry is now 47KB. That is one of the most important numbers in existence, along with 21 and 42. If you have to ask, forget the effort and move on. You’ll never understand. Just a thought. Oh, and you may notice that much of the time I spell out the numbers with words rather than typing them out directly. The reason is some are much more important than others. 21. 42. 47. Figure it out.

There is Jamie again... Near the end of the series. Even when her hair is tied or ‘up’, the sheer level of beauty she displays is never diminished. The more I see her during the latter half of the run, the more I love her. Those fucking dreams didn’t help, either. They only further solidified the fact that she embodies every single fucking aspect of female physical attractiveness over which I have EVER obsessed. And yes, the lines are included. There is a difference between Jamie and the plum pants (as an example, of course), and that remains the fact that I love her. I do not love the lines, I need them. The more time that passes, the stronger my feelings for both.

I think I need to add ‘the’ to each of these vane titles. The syntax is beginning to irritate me for some reason.


My mind often goes back to that fateful day when there was nearly too much for my eyes and mind to handle. Right there... Not far. From one set of numbers to another and back again. I don’t know the numbers, nor will I ever. There had been issues for a while prior to that day, none of which really made much difference, and I dealt with them as I always do by flexing my imagination up one side and down the other. There were also issues inherent in such a situation. I can’t discuss them here. Just know that inside me was a massive cyclone that would not let up for quite some time. I had not seen so much before. Maybe a few years ago when everything was simpler and the numbers barely appeared, but by the time the bad day came along, there was far more than I had ever envisioned. Believe me, I can imagine quite a bit after all these years, most of which has been splattered all over this fucking content. The day in question is one I will not soon forget. There is no saving such information, no matter how badly I may need it. And I need it more than ever before. The wonder will not stop. The day will come to this place again. It will. There is nothing I can do about it. Check the gate. It may be fucked up.

Each vane is more painful than the last. I may as well shove my head into an industrial blower. I have no power when it comes to this shit. The only power I have is beneath my tired fingers. The keyboard pays no mind, though. It just sits there and awaits my time. I just pulled two more screenshots from the show in order to capture the goddess of the universe and her huge, beautiful eyes. I love her and I know how fucked up I am. Anyway, All I have in life is my time in front of this machine, those wondrous memories, and a handful of little enjoyments that barely keep me from falling off the fucking mezzanine. The vanes are winning, and the gate is not the last one. Maybe one of the upcoming vanes should be named Jamie. Fuck me. What a life this has become. Her eyes have become the end-all be-all of human existence. Isn’t that peachy? No power. Barely anything. Just a keyboard and a million fucking images of a love that cannot exist.

Check the gate and then check it again. A third time may be in order, as well. Do it. Any help would be really nice right now. I don’t feel very well. Today is the first day of March. I have the next several hours to myself. Maybe some good will happen. Maybe. The way I feel right now is such that I really don’t care how this day may appear when it reaches the eyes. I don’t have many plans, the weather is again inclement, and sitting at the control center is already pretty damned comfortable. Well, as much as it can be considering how fucked up my head usually is this time of day. Yes, that is still a daily issue and I have yet to find relief. Sometimes I force the situation into bending to my wishes, and the process is analogous to turning a corner in the market when I see something troubling within my vision. I really don’t have much choice in the matter, though. I have to deal with it or make a permanent change. The time is not right because I have to deal with these fucking vanes. I don’t want them getting the best of me and becoming the entire definition of my life. I can’t have that. Check the gate. Where is the end of this line? Will it be a buffer? A spur with nothing to be seen? This shit just keeps rolling along; maybe it will roll over me once and for all. A rolling vane? I don’t know.

Another day, another vane, another head full of memories and sadness. I’ll have to do my best to maintain myself through this process lest I end up nothing more than a punch line. The need to sit here and hold myself up is pathetic. I should not be doing this. The process makes me angry, I stew for a little while until realizing that I’m powerless to do anything, and then the anger turns into sadness, disillusionment, and feelings of loss. I know that I’ve aged and nothing remains the status quo for very long, but I’ve lost decades that cannot return or be repeated. Check the gate.

No debris, please. Film is like flesh."