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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Is it your league game?

There was an email blast from Tilray that was recently shared in a private capacity in a trusted community that has my attention. The medical marijuana community in fact. Tilray (*click for link) is an LP here in Canada, that included the likes of a Master Kush in their grow. An LP, is a Licensed Producer, and you can no doubt find more than enough information about the current situation in Canada. In this case, a newly appointed, and previously tenured group, joined forces and Tilray became the shining example of ‘functional’ systems. They also had a strain named Master Kush which was an “incredible 29%”, and that absolutely sold out in less than a few hours. This strain was reported to be 29%, and that can be a reasonable assumption given the ability for Tilray to test, and the fact that yes, they have been to date Canadian; but moving forward into 2015 you can be assured Privateer Holdings, and the rich-tech billionaires now looking to provide fruit bowls of chronic weed at their yacht parties that is truly ‘owned’ by them, shit will be different. I may stand tall beside some of the finest people I have had the pleasure of knowing in the organization, and can only hope their namesake is as royal as the intentions of the family which may have provided some more appropriate guidance for such an early leader. Careful, say the Greeks. Those that come early, are first to be wiped clean in the rolling histories of political correctness and likes. May not.

The fact that the majority of Tilray “gardens” are still to be sanctioned, approved, and placed into production means that at the very least, patients are looking at Tilray producing real volumes in 18-24 months, and the market is using an abacus to count the days knowing each one is a head start on the hundreds, soon to be thousands of applicants, in Canada alone. Until then, the collective they will spend the first 6 months pacing and watching, the next 6 months collectively tweaking and then maybe have some quality medicine rolled out a couple of times in the following six. That may be 12 months, and bink – hello 2017! What will NYSE or NASDAQ be doing then?

Thank you America, let’s rip up some hoser holes eh?

$14/g for the weed; for the evil grass of the past, that now, being medicinal and driven by the same invisible hands of Adam Smith’s theorists, ghosts and ongoing economic lamentations, is very much a great deal? The “prohibition bomb” cleared out the vaults, and now, the gunslingers be pulling ammo outta’assholes.

Shipping is included (*wink*), but you have to pay tax on the whole kit, and so let’s just say your daily “5 grams” (*pukes, and then tries to laugh through the dripping, drooling saliva and chunks of vomit, tries to utter words but then pukes again – fucking moraines, fields of fuqtarded by choice idiots), sorry daily just had me chuckle, is now $15.82/gram, or daily $79.10.

Incredible eh? That is the entire income for some workers in an entire shift/day…how about the sick?

Most people on disability, fighting for their lives, and truly needing help to fight the hell that is raging in their bodies, some days not even wanting to fight any longer, can not even afford to pay that in a WEEK for their food, and some, over the course of a MONTH may have that much to spend on food.

Mother of God – please let my virgin hatred right now for the machine, the wealthy pricks and diseased fuqranauts that still flaunt the arrogance of a moon landing, energy crises, terrorism thwarting a chained ‘freedom’ and even the fact that currencies can be raped and pillaged while sharing the same ink stained pages of newsprint for the heathens that do not have the interwebz…please let that just let me get back to wondering…

Over the course of a single month, this represents a tab of $2,373 for 5 ounces. 30 days. That is cash, not financed, or pre-tax. After tax, no bullshit; two thousand, three hundred, seventy-three dollars and no pennies, they are not even rounding pegs for nickels much longer.

The average income for an Ontario citizen ranges from a low of a few hundred dollars a week, to a couple of thousand a week. In this link (*http://www.statcan.gc.ca/tables-tableaux/sum-som/l01/cst01/labor93g-eng.htm) you can see, that my small summary chart helps get an appreciation for the “scope” of this cost, and how the cost that can be absorbed by a sector of the employed categories is made up of the very professions society would deem not requiring any reefer substance or good which may, or may not, produce madness.

Like Bob Marley’s name being used to promote a brand of “real ganja”; shit has gotten beyond real. We have a wet behind the ears opponent, to an asshole of huge proportions thinking he can keep the west on the trail as the rest of us wait by the rest stop. Fuck, is that the Reform party boosting the Conservative party Winnebago’s? Preston smoking some of Harper’s cone? Honk on bo-bo?

*pukes*

Category Weekly Avg – Gross Monthly Avg – Gross After tax – Net 65 Monthly MK (*5g/day) % of Avg/Month*N65

Available

Utilities 1,959.40 $7,837 $5,094 $2,373 47% $2,721
Mining, quarrying, and oil and gas extraction 1,874.77 $7,499 $4,874 $2,373 49% $2,501
Professional, scientific and technical services 1,290.57 $5,162 $3,355 $2,373 71% $982
Administrative and support, waste management and remediation services 696.17 $2,784 $1,810 $2,373 131% ($563)
Arts, entertainment and recreation 595.65 $2,382 $1,548 $2,373 153% ($825)
Accommodation and food services 361.34 $1,445 $939 $2,373 252% ($1,434)

*Categrory descriptions, they are cut and paste from the very government site(s) you can look at. These are Ontario numbers. Never let it be said The Machine did not advise the wise, lies or eyes, as it’s all just bound for demised sighs.

**No I did not forget the dollar sign in the column, it is that way to illustrate how it appears “odd” when so desensitized to the dollar sign, that magic marker of value to all those that think it matters.

 

What is very interesting is the order with which the whole chart above, pulls out a fascinating fact. Management of companies and enterprises has an average, October/2014 weekly income of $1,256.64. Again, this is per a 2014-12-12 edited, CANSIM 281-0063, Statistics Canada table. Live and direct from the Machine. This category is important, as it is just behind “professionals”, who interestingly enough lag the utility and energy ‘grunts’; and is then followed by, pardon me if I may sound fucked on this one, but followed by the glorious society improving Public Administrators. This hallowed group of Einstein’s offspring, direct heirs to his intelligence in urban planning, justice and street vendor/garage sale permit masters of the Parking Ticket Realm, shall be paid $1,244.06.

This is incredible.

Bureaucrats, somehow, that is all I can think. Please, do not think I shall harp on the arguements of the Table Masters that speak of police, and fire and all those people also fall into this category. Well, then let us make another category Table Masters. Let us be clear, and then we can see.

Do you really think, that even those people above, are in a position to devote 50% of their income, to pay for just THIS ONE SINGLE TYPE of medication?

How about those at the bottom of the chart? Do they not deserve access to the same medication, the same quality and standards? Will the government health programs not be covering these expenses? Surely, then there shall be no issue if I am audited, and hold my pockets empty and truly speak the words of poverty, for there is nothing left. Usurp my land, my money and my time, but never my dignity.

What the fuck?

How many times, and in how many forms are we paying taxes? Where is there any relief from having to pay someone for the air I breathe, the water I seek and the ability to try to provide for my own standard of a life? How the fuck did we get here? Letting the water fall, into the blue again…once in a lifetime, same as it ever was…

You want to talk about the power of compounding numbers? The fact the government can now control so much more of the “supply” by cutting back the permits, and the financial environment can kill the last hopes and dreams of any producer, even now, knowing the death toll is in the fact that one can not rush time or nature. The old supplies are dead, and in order to catch up, there will be pain, fasting and more droughts.

Parched lips can barely stand the sight of water, let alone hold the resolve to know the day may never come to taste of Gaia again.
Find the magic, and then hold it.
Preserve it in a jar, and pay the price to the Table Masters.
Canada has the West to thank for oil and bud.
They deserve all the monies and the base, bel0ngz 2dem.

You wonder why the rich get richer, and the poor still swim in the urine of the dogs the rich have to ensure the streets are filled with urine and feces, so the poor can swim in that and never bother with the rich…do you?

Cause the collective we is a bunch of monkeys trying to type Shakespeare, in every language, using only their belly buttons, and while doing so, trying to fit a Eureka vacuum into the oven door opening. This may seem off enough, but it is nothing next to the North Korean men dressed in Colonel Sanders outfits painting the walls with some SPAMcrylic latex that is sure to pacify.

Cause all the people that are sitting back right now, and able to ‘provide’ for themselves are doing so with hook, nook, book and a good look over the shoulder very frequently, hoping that parent does not die, or the party is over. No one is going to care then, and when you can not afford to even pay for your food, let alone get your critical medicine, what will happen to the parody magazines in France, and the cultures that think painting a cartoon makes it less offensive to place religious figures at the end of bad jokes, or rancid humor? Maybe there is more to the commentary than meets the eye…that kind of cause?

What about the cuzz, as in cuzz’in you best be fuckn’ witch me in the following table; the one below that was snapped from the workbook and is my own intellectual property. Welcome to noodle the numbers, they are all within range, and they all speak to the power of compounding rice.

The challenge is making sure you are on the right side of the compounding, and you have a place to ensure you speak no, hear no, and see no knievel.

So, we will start along the path of the Status Quo.

A friendly path they say, just make sure to not stray outside of the mortgage constraints of the walk on the side. This is similar to a walk on part in a war, lead role in a cage according to Floyd. This is the land of candy mountain, and sugary treats. Where Charlie is a unicorn, with a home that consumes 30% of his cash, if not 45%+, but we will be cool and believe Charlie can keep his shit together. There is some food, about 25%, and then some clothing and missinlanesforus stuffs for maybe another 25%. Seems pretty clean.

So the “real” disposable income for “health” or the Reefer Madness prescription is the remaining 20%. Assuming there is anything left that can be spent there. If not, you have to choose.

Food, or medicine; a choice any god, being, spirit or belief would call on a normal person to choose. Fuck the habitat or shelter, food follows water, then joy. We can live in the wild honey, just you and I. Love will feed us, it will keep us healthy.

All of this, while a half a billion dollar valuation is supported by another $75,000,000 of Series B capital from the same Thiel’s fund, a Founders Fund no less. According to the same sources referenced above, and to use the same numbers and projections accordingly, please note:

“Privateer is already generating meaningful revenue, although the company is not profitable. In 2014 it expects to generate nearly $11 million in net revenue, up from $1.2 million in 2013. Most of that revenue (60% to 70%) is generated by Lafitte Ventures, and the rest is from Leafly. Privateer expects to reach profitability and generate $111 million in 2015 and $440 million in 2016.”

So Charlie, is not blessed enough to pull oil or minerals from the ground, nor market them to those that find power and valuable energies from within, hell, he only wishes he could be a lowly doctor or professional in a category that is so open for manipulation through obscurity. No, Charlie is an accommodation Jedi. Warrior of the traveller’s ways, and with all the ways known to man embedded within his hospitable grasp, he claims to earn the terrible wage published by the Machine. Indeed, his taxable income is slightly higher than the number in the chart, but still less than $1000.

A nice round number it seems, to move forward now with a couple of quick jabs.

Slices, small licks that one would welcome knowing become scars across the brows of the minions fisting onion rings in the name of sexual promiscuity for all lards, greases and lubricants that hide in the shadows of YouTube cookies and pingbacks.

So, you bet.

Charlie has $200 to purchase his medicine, for the whole month.

That is not weekly, that is the whole month. If he can maximize his volume, he may be able to buy as much as 1 oz. Interesting, that to do that, he would have to get the 28 grams at $7. A figure that is thrown around as illustrative of how free people really can vote, and pick cotton, and make railways. Don’t you see?

What is missing, is that it is less than the 5 grams a day that were prescribed to help Charlie function. It seems to be in the same range as the 20% available in the equation used above. It is said, that when the holy fathers gathered in the Vatican, you know, not sexist or color blind whatsoever that group, when all the white holy fathers gathered to seek the divine signals for the next pontiff, they were met along the way with the same divine logic distilled by the pubs of content visited so frequently, songs sung by the piano man in mood for melody. Making things all right.

It does not compute.
It does not work.

The numbers are horrific, and we can simply say, that to survive – Charlie had to start borrowing some money. He had to borrow twice as much as he made every month, just to live at his current standard. That was assuming he would be able to find a place, where he could try to squeak out his interest payment. Sacrifice some milk, avoid the vegetables, eat the odd napkin or bowl of ice cubes as a snack. He no longer had his family, or his siblings. His friends had all left to live more fantastic lives in the alternate reality. Pokes, and likes and pictures of the greatest ass thanks to a genuinely disturbing invention, the Ass-Selfie Extension Stick w/Flash.

People are fucked.

The world is falling apart, and the day to day quality of life has been gutted for profit. Everyone’s a prophet Mohammed, je mais souviens…

Charlie thinks each month, the following month will be better. He remains an optimist, because he can actually recover next month. Something better will happen.

Sorry Charlie, you are about to see why the only good thing that can happen is a fast, steep fall or hollow point by chance and good fortune.

Charlie & Gus 1

You dig?

Charlie & Gus 2

It is all about making the money, funny.

Charlie & Gus 3

I know for a fact, unless you dig the cowboy hat, the ‘stache and…fuck it, may as well now swear so much…

Charlie & Gus 4

So if I smoke for one year, to be well; that means I spend the next 12 years in fiscal Hell? So the amount of time to earn a post-secondary degree will equate to 5 decades of rot? Well, the be about the same numbers The Machine affirmed.

Charlie & Gus 5

Just not real, not a chance of real.

Still.
They wait.

We don’t.

We; just bowl.
This is a league game.
So fuck their rules.

Roll.

*abide*

By

Umbrellahead.

The reason it is so big, is not just the contents. I think it has something to do with keeping the rain off the shoulders, I don’t like rain on the shoulders. Feels the coldest of all the places that rain settles, the wind just brushes it a certain way there. Makes it more bitter, harsh – but that did not matter.

I have an umbrella head, and I am not talking about a head like a big one, or a round one. I mean a head, that was actually stretched into looking like a hammerhead shark tried to come out the vajayjay and got caught on some sixties untrimmed bush, creating this bone like frame similar to that of the inside of an umbrella, and it was to that my skin and brain formed in the baby years.

My name is Umbrellahead.

Hard to grasp, but just imagine an umbrella that is over your head, but it is not over really, it starts right at the top crown of my abdullus camelgotta. The good news, it is not convex to the body, but concave. I came out head first, got that to be thankful for.

I won’t bore you with all of the details that became challenges in life. Early in it, pretty much called cute. It was a novelty, and it was amazing. I was special, and loved it. The kids always picked me first for soccer and baseball teams knowing I could keep them dry in the field if they ran under my head. Wind was not a problem in those days.

As other people waited for the rain to stop, I happily stood beside the BBQ, eating the hot dogs innocently with the chosen few to stand around under the “halo”. We would laugh, and laugh.

Of course, this began to change more as I got older. The cruel comments started in grade 6 to be exact. I commented on Becky’s Road Runner jeans, and she said the first mean thing to me that day. I never really understood it. I knew it made me feel bad, but why?

“If your second head looks anyone near as fuqtarded as that umbrella one you are never getting laid Umbrellahead.”

The words still ring in my head. Did she mean my umbrella head was my second head, and the first one made me ugly enough that no girl would ever let me touch, let alone get into those Road Runner jeans? Was there some kind of hidden meaning here? Was she talking about the head of the magic souvlaki that I was gifted with? No, that was shaped like the smile of an angel. Odd, very odd.

I am sure most of us know the coming of age for a young boy will start in and around grade 6. This is the time that he begins to discover the sexy raincoats in the JC Penny catalogue, or those patterned umbrellas from the L.L Bean booklet they always mail you for the shitter. Best place to bloke stroke as a young umbrella headed person, and it never dawned on me until that fateful day, that perhaps I was different.

That was all it took.

One hot, Road Runner jeans wearin’ buttertart.

My confidence was shaken and the world was about to come crashing down.

The next dozen plus years were like stubby bottles and bacon grease. Drink the bottle, fill it with the pork bellies drippings that no one wanted previously, but now were declared delicious by the machine – it had to drip somewhere, and the lowest common denominator may as well make something happen with it as the gruel of life was to be both tolerated and celebrated.

People would throw things at me, and stare. I would be ignored, or pushed out of line. I was told I had to move, or be thrown into the recycle bin cause no one loves a deformed umbrella.

Harsh.

It did not matter that I had a heart, or was a man that simply had an umbrella head but could lift eight times his body weight. Spoken word, math or agricultural discussions flowed like the Pacific shaking hands with the Atlantic – but it did not matter. Polite to a fault, wanting to make sure all could sit, or the door was open, or the line up was not an issue, please go ahead – but it did not matter. A great CSR, with a penchant for solving any problem, with no additional costs, manipulation, lies, malcontent, malodorous management mantras or the like – nope, not a fuckin’ matter.

He would still be mocked and taunted. Pushed and pulled to move away from someone quickly before they ‘called the police, or whatever we call to deal with your kind’ – life, it seemed had changed for me.

The only time, and I mean the only time people were nice to me was during rain storms or rainy days, the bad windy and snowy ones, or even on the odd scorching hot day when there was no shade to be found anywhere. Of course, it would be my pleasure to allow the top of my umbrella head to get sunburnt in order to make sure yours does not. I want to stay out here and do this, so you can take an iPhone pic of me on the corner of Queen/Yonge with 13 people huddled under me after you have left my comfort to find your home in the wet masses going home to loved ones. I want to get on that trolley, but by the holy laws of Zeus, no need to push these folks away.

I have no loved ones, and may as well feel good and get the smiles and best wishes now.

Assumption: this was going to be the way that my life was going to change from being a fun loving child, to a utilitarian tool that would be there to be used as required, and then tossed aside. Never cleaned, or cared for. Never held with a pride and an esteem that my great-great-uncle in London was. He had been born with a walking stick as an arm, it accompanied a wonderful gentleman around Essex County and the surrounding woods everywhere. Bringing adoration and prestige.

Not me.

I had to be born into this day and age. The one where Fonzi had ruined what was traditionally cool, and artists like Mickey Avalon spoke about “their dicks” like it was some kind of custom, orthotic rubber shoe cover.

My life as a man with an umbrella head had turned into a nightmare. I had no choice, and even went to the doctor so I could see what she could give me. She said son, son you have gone to far, been smoking and trippin’ – betchya there are fairies that you have seen also? Yes, I said, a fairy with boots dancing with a dwarf. She gave me some Celexa. I will never forget the day.

It was the Sabbath. It was black.

Everything changed after that. I just went into drone mode. I allowed people to snap pictures of them with me, laughing outside but crying inside. Sometimes I would make elephant man noises, and speak of not being an inanimate. No one heard over the clicking of the lens or the laughter. I got into the groove of feeling what my shoulders would be like at the end of the day, having to turn this way and that to go through doors or try to use the bathroom stall. Do you know how hard it is to have to hold yourself up with two arms on the stall walls and then Turkish hover shit into the bowl a few feet below? Sure precision on the bowl is important, but if those legs start to swing or the shoes get in the way, I got some cleaning up to do later.

*sidenote – bullshit more people don’t have handicap stalls, but the fucked up thing about those is the toilet is right beside a wall and I still have to contort to the left or the right, and sometimes the tip of the umbrella touches the floor and I have to go home and use the acid-infused shower to rinse the disgusting juices of bathroom floors off.

Life was miserable, but it was the only one I had. Sitcoms, social networks and soda. My health did not matter. Even with muscular arms, a gymnasts body and chiseled set of legs, I was still an outcast. I had tried running at several points in my life, but wind gusts prevented any effective training and in fact caused some serious neck injuries that one time along the Scarborough Bluffs when that wild brine tsunami came unannounced.

I lay in bed for weeks after that resting. I don’t call it sleep, because the position and the discomfort is as close to Hell as can be imagined.

I did not even think about the word love. It was just a fantasy concept. I liked a lot of things, found joy and relief in being able to hide in some of them, but I did not know of this place in my life. No family, no friends – this shadow of a person walking the streets the way to the specially adapted cubicle, with the specially adapted ear piece, taking calls, making sure customers were always treated with dignity.

No one could “see” Umbrellahead here. They could just feel his words. He never confused people, he was very clear. Easy to use, and functional – his intellectual fabric protecting the customer, even from some of the same internal assholes who resented his 106% Satisfaction Rating, which for the record is possible is you take the 6% of the calls he resolved for his “peers” and add them to his own 100% rating.

The day that I met her, it all changed. It was as if the thunderbolt had struck me, and I had never heard such a happy person in my life. She had called to make sure to thank us for providing an adaptive kit she had been looking for all of her life, it changed her life – and my gratitude in reply was kind and real.

I had helped improve that kit based on my umbrella condition, and I was so pleased that it allowed her to see life in a new light. She told me, and I will never forget those words, the man that understood the need for this in the world, was the man that would have her heart. I pursed my lips, and my pulse grew like the cocks of the stallion steeds returning from the battles of Alexander the Great to see the fields of mares with trays of cheeses, dolmades and ouzo. I could not tell her I was that man, that would not be right. My heart sang, for the first time since being an innocent child.

I spent the entire shift on the phone with her, Ms. B. U. Stand. She was fabulous and by the end of the call, I was just calling her Stand. It was an odd name, but she was endeared to it. Said many times, it was just fate that had things happen for certain reasons, and she was happy with hers. Although never married and alone, she was educated, had a wonderful farm estate she had adapted into a pleasant place to greet company and share baked goods with the bed & breakfast guests, she said she had “hopes to put in a small Canadian shield amphitheater so she could host special events for special people and their friends.”

She helped people who were special, or with challenges, find the beauty in who they were. She asked me at the end of the call if I would be interested in meeting for a tea, she had to come down the street from the office the next day, and I would be able to receive her drawings, related to possibly enhancing the quality of life of others who may need the device, and she felt it was her duty to do that as quickly as possible. Making the world a better place was important for her, would I be so kind?

If it had not been for the fact both of them felt something over the phone that day, combined with her incredible intelligence and foresight to be able to predict that he would never break a professional code to have a tea with a customer, let alone risk being seen and rebuked. The one time he had tried this, all the change she had been counting as she waited for his arrival was thrown right at his umbrella, one of the dimes had an evil ridge, it left a permanent scar. Still sees it to this day. He smiles today though.

If we can make one less person suffer, let’s do this.

Lunch the next day was a good time, and Umbrellahead would still have to eat, so he suggested 12:30 and he would treat with the tea. It was best it stayed in his hands and the tray, that shit is hot if thrown. Lessons learned. *sigh* She was going to be wearing orange, their favorite color.

Umbrellahead came from the back, it was the best way to approach for him, and in this case, it was fate. What he saw, expecting to see Stand in orange, was anything but a regular stand.

She was beautiful. Her shape was like no other one he had ever seen, and to some it may have been contrived as even over weight, gaudy. Un-natural even. Horrible, ignorant people would say this. Real men, true gentle, kind, loving, magical men would not care about such a dalliance of thought, they would be so struck by the unique and beautiful nature of who she was, and what she held in such high regard.

She had an umbrella stand on her back.
Back U. Stand.

My head was spinning.
It was making sense now, her name.
The u.

A large, ornate, flesh covered umbrella stand. In it were several orange umbrellas, each with a small orange heart shaped piece of paper that said “Be kind, share the orange.” They were beautiful, and somehow would be hidden from the front. Her hair, this beautiful Natalie Wood/Brigitte Bardot creation was flowing in the back and also worked well with her choice of outfit.

I was about to turn, and run – I had on some Dockers, and an orange plaid shirt. I thought it would be funny to wear orange socks and my flip-flops, cause dressing a little like a clown might disarm most, and one of the creamers fell off the tray. She turned gently, and our eyes met.

I never went back to work.

I moved out of my apartment 2 weeks later.

My umbrella head helped keep the sun and rain off the back for 2 summers.

Igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic all created one beautiful blend.

The people in our lives are beautiful people.
Unique, smart, funny, loving – people.

The happiest day in our lives, was when we found out we were pregnant. It took several months for the doctors to confirm, but I am happy to announce, we are expecting twins. Sometime in the fall, 2014. Two peas in her pod, but momma umbrella stand is doing well and we remain blessed for all the magic in our lives.

Umbrellahead, Back and our two peas.

Please say hello to us after the show, the matinee is the best one to bring the kids along for pictures and autographs, the evening shows can get a bit more cheeky when we include our special guests, Clothesline Arms and Jackhammer Dick.

Fuck, life is a trip eh.

*abide*

By

To relatives.

The entire series, was almost a decade ago. You expect me to sit here, and be passive as my name and effort is slandered – I watch my own parade sunshine, your escapades are for others to deem interest worthy, or note scurvy. I stand by what I write, how I write, and for whom. Anyone, questions always welcome. You stare at the cover and wonder what the words mean, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Then again, more than likely, I could give a fuq to hear it. *jar rattles*

Enthusiasm is relative. Not a relative. Make the mistake of thinking that you are married to some kind of blood kin, that is supposed to come rushing out of you like unbridled enthusiasm, and deep breath – and you are cooked.

Some like to take things to a point, and then are willing to walk away from them, even when there is residual value in them, they have become so exasperated by the struggle, but the effort, by the cause that may or may not have been treated with the fair and right regal attention it deserved, but then again, that is what has allowed us today to capitalize on the failures of the past.

The lessons they learned, from succeeding to move the bar, or the ones that were failures inspiring a new line of thinking, all the way to the one’s that have allowed us to see man truly flying on his own. In the air, on a prayer.

For the thrill, for the purpose.

To not be away from it. To peer at the thrill of it all, and know that life is worth living only when the seize of insomnia ask for no permission they know will never be granted.

Life is precious, in any regard.
Wake the fuck up and live it.
Today.
Now.

You are in a position that is “close to the edge”?

This is where success, separates from “them” who stand on the edge and don’t jump for the thrill.

Fucking pussies.
I was there.
Once.

Many times actually, but that is a collective once now.

The Man in the Arena, “if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I will not stop daring.
I will not stop trying.
I will not allow someone to just smirk at the sand.
I will not abide.
I will not try.

(licks pin on brine grenade, filled with belief every morning upon awakening, I carry it on me at all times, and reloads are always near by)

Each particle, each fragment – united, it becomes a greater force. A clearer image, filled with the pixels of purpose and the thorns to be rested on the weary head that must shield their eyes, their orifices, their very souls from the cerebral tsunami before them.

That is ok sunshine, stay in the concrete tent.
That is where your God has asked to stay, serve the rebar.

If you mix your effort with cloak, it will go awry He said, and still you decided to press. Remove the caramel and sugar coated textile from the tin, and dance with the sure grin on the fluoride tainted taste provide by the Machine.

Follow at your own will, and under your prowess.

Blessings, once aboden, become surety.

Bounties on the soul, with actions and flaming fuqtardation to espouse matrimony with mental mavericks or midgets.

Listen, to the call of the loon.

Disturbance or peace, is a reflection which remains, and always shall be – relative.

To health, happiness and prosperity – the last of which, is fully defined by ourselves. The old chicken, has the juice.

What kind of side dish you want served with that corn bread, ma’am.

*abide*

By

Goats don’t like Feta.

I came back from an appointment, none of any one particular business, but of many – not yours. Suffice it to say, I was in the orange and digging the gig.

It was the subway.

I know, what a piece of shit. Such a lowlife, I had to use the public transit system. Please, focus more on the word ‘has’ and the context you want to insert, for I have not inferred anything but the utterance of it…oh…wait…you have to assume, from the appearance of the clothes and my choice of public I am a common man.

A working man.

Usually on a discrete seat, with my ass hanging off of it – smiling, or with a tear in my eye because I am watching “Doubt Me” on this machine that let’s me see things, and create things sometimes.

She looks at me, and sees the tear.

I can not watch the video, and not cry.

This is true, as it is factus lebowskius that strong men also cry, twice. After periods. Real men, have to have 3 periods before they cry, but let’s not go there – sure, you consider me a pussy for your own story. Fuck you for judging it. You don’t know why – figure out your own reason. Real men also cry.

Her eyebrows cross – they knit into a small pattern and I go sit beside her. She has had a bad day, I am not too sure why, nor do I care. She has not asked me for anything, other than some kind of recognition of answering her human concern of why, transmitted in a code that goes back to caves and fire.

I say no words, I don’t want to.

I smile, obviously my goat has her disarmed. On occasion, lamb, but as of late goat.

Sitting on her left, I give her my left ear bud to a set of Bose earphones. She has no idea they are Bose, not that it will do anything for her greater than to allow her to listen to the soundtrack, and I ask her if she doubts me.

There is not a word that is exchanged, and she watches. Reads, her eyes will dart to me when she thinks she can breath between the music, and.

She does not.

Her tear proves it, as does her email. Her name is Janet, and she is a wonderful lady in a wonderful world.

If you look closely at the video, you will see her.

She is one of the grains of sand.

As am I.

As are you.

Believe.

You got the magic, and if anyone ever doubts it – even me – you make sure you stand motherfucking tall, sip back the shot of fucking right, and nail the motherfucking goat with some cosmic energy.

*abide*

By

Albedo fingertips.

Albedo.

Reflection coefficient or, range?

Fingertips made of the same sensation.

Water.

Rushing, can’t stop.

It has been a trip – to get here.

To release the pounds.

Fucking.

Gus.

What a beautiful trip – the sheer, majesty of it.

Glorious really.

Breath taking.

A story based on fiction, that is fact? Factual account turned to reveal the reflections of a man in those moments the glorious waves just tumble and turn, providing us a moment to be thankful?

*sip

The journey was delicious, and it still is.

“There was never meant to be oil in the branch. It comes only from the olives offered at the table.” – Gus

*abide*

By

Doubt anyone else, but Feta.

Gus is raging.

The time is now.

The updates will be here, and the timing will be clear.

“The book” – is being published in the next 7-14 days. All ISBN information, and administrative functions have been cleared.

The “discussions” with other parties is no longer going to prevent me from completing my personal goal and intentions. Editors, publishers, agents…this is my arena, and I am tired of waiting to be told what and how to do it, sacrificed for the pittance of some time that needs to manifest itself on your calendar repeatedly to prove you have prestige in that position on the wheel.

You know where I am, the book will be out there.

Check, raise.

All in.

Fucking Gus. One “crazy” man who always believed the grass was orange, it was any colour he wanted it to be. He had a plan. It was all so simple, it seemed. Take the millions made, find new wealth and excess and create a magical marijuana operation. It was beyond criminal. It was life threatening, and life changing. The wild and drug fueled world of Gus and his associates, his family, his enemies – the life of a brother is lost, logical illusions crumble as paradox is crucified and marijuana is hung for treason while Gus reasons and has to fight to not only save his family, but in fact, himself and humanity.

This is no longer a testing pattern.

The grass is fucking orange.

Come play in it.

It won’t bite.

Promise.

*abide*

By

Handshake UD – NOYB 1.1

The experience continues, and the bottom line?

I am thirsty.

“Asking” for a beer, and a handshake, I would have thought that would have been very easy to do with the offer of leaving an iPod behind for the lucky winner of the back-of-the-napkin raffle. It is a 3rd Generation, 4GB, iPod Shuffle and it is new. and the posts are right below this one. Here is the the shortcut to the original post, in case the “napkin” has some feta or brine juice on it.

It can get pretty spunky, so providing a daily update for those that think this is “twerk” or about making money.

So far, 6 Tweets of my own, that have been RT from me, non from here direct but one single solitary Zippo. Connected the crosshairs with a direct S/O and for that, am always grateful. This “code” is pretty simple, there has been one RT – so, interesting to note the impressions and the hits, but what about extended handshakes?

Trench warfare is not easy, smells like pretzels down here.

Twitter – 17 users, 33 interactions
Twitter Statistics:
Stars (n/a): 24
RT: 9
RT (*beer): 0

“Longevity is created, not spurred.” – Gus

Friends Family: **
RT (*beer): 0*
BG:**
*none of these friends have not RT, or will not be eligible until they do. The likelihood of that is barely registered, they are the support and kinship of another kind. I am most grateful for their generosity, and affirmations of abide in and of themselves. Support comes in many ways, as does wealth.
**NOYB – None of Your Business represents the fictional title of the “free” research piece that will flow from this approximate week, and it is going to include a groundbreaking revelation about the “Buy the Book” principle. It may or may not involve the last series of months of discovery, and will be interesting to get for free, as the trial lift, pre-release of the “Orange Grass Abides” piece, the title of which is different.

Anybody who demands brutal honesty and transparency from me, is to be granted the same opportunity at any given time.

“It is never madness. It is just about deemed reasons justified as an intent.” – Gus

Hotel Abide.

Demand brutal honesty and transparency from another, but be prepared to grant the same to opportunity and its concequences, logical repurcussions or cerebral sutra.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

*abide*

By

Forgive me. I have sinned.

Our Elites, are in tweet heaven, 
Holy is Their Name;
Their kingdom’s cum,
 your wills begets some,

on Favstar as it is in your “heaven.”
Elites, serve us this day your daily head,
and Big Mac us your puns, 
so we forgive the fuqtards who sin against us;
and lead me not in masturbation,
 but lever my meat cause I’m evil.
Amen.

I know you are cut of the cloth that has never done such things, oh wise monk of Twitter, with your sage drive-thru cloak and pontificated presence in the Elite Lords stewardship, but I stand here before you with one hope.

The abstinence that will be fed to purge my soul of the vile tribulations that you walked, and I know of the hardship that you had gone through – to have had to walk through the valley of the Chiseled Followback clan, and survived – all in a testament to the star piles left beside the camel dung of your sage words and creative sadness, lest not forget the monotonous tones of your identity and your characters in Jesus Christ, Superstarbang – a miracle. I can only be so blessed to know one day I may be able to tweet about what I ate, and inspire another to smile with my misery over the battery remote, please forgive me for what I am about to reveal.

Revile me.

I sought the Jezebel, a woman that Mary Mandolin had strummed singing sweet songs of memories pure and true, it was her message to me and I fell to her wails. I wanted to be like you oh great monk of the perish.

I had to kiss her, Tweetadder. Her twitter strategy…so…flawless. Fair. So just. So “elite”.

She was so lovely there. Glistening in the moonlight, the shadow that had been cast by your own forefathers. Perhaps even those of the renowned Twitteratti, slipping from character to character to replace the chalice from their library years, with a hope that no one can hear that stalk fall or the sirens calls heated by the glorious gasps of dragons I am assured you have tamed, now that you have left them out of those dungeons.

The forest is such a wild place for a wizard. You know, or at least one of your identities knows. Of this, be sure.

I should not have been tempted, but the link. It seemed so real. So true, it must have been a real person there, gifted in the craft they speak so much of being able to create. The bosoms were grand, they were everywhere – she had turned into a nipple Medusa. I was not able to escape her clever ways, and appealing musk. The site before me was horrific, I had thought, that yes, if I had made it to the mountain I would be well armed to move forward and avoid her calls.

But those nipples…below knee…baloney…delirious joy…freedom.

Oh but wise sage, those nipples, how they turned into aureole serpents of flesh tones promised with the taste of the positions to come. The format kingdom, for but a moment to see what she really had in store for me, not knowing it was just the gateway.

She leaned in, and whispered.

“See who is not following you.”

It was glorious.

Like something I had never seen before.

She was right.

It was the gateway.

And this, this is my satchel.

Each filled with a real story, and real experience.

Each letter, each stroke counted, known.

The money shots, the lucky shots, the buck shots, hot shots, shit shots, big shots, bot shots…

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the hord:
Tramps of vintage oak where the grapes of wrath are stored;
I have loosed the feta lightning of tsunami swift brine words:
Girthy souvlaki dong.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah!”

Yes, I had seen what her power was.

And the patterns all became so clear.

I was hooked.

It had all started with the one simple filter application.

Such sexy lingerie, such a ubiquitous smirk…how did you do it, how did you resist the temptation? Tell me.

You*: “Forefathers of the Chiseled Followback clan, the Favstar Genitalliarattii, had tried to survive in the world, and hoped they could hide in their secret world, but they had to mutate, and begin to preserve their word on the dried parchment of elk cock. It was a horrible time, but they survived. Merely on the bones and fluids of their own kind, shoving star, after star, after worthless star – no nutritional value in those virtual mitzvah’s. Some said it was Zeus himself that had no value, but we are not want here to decide if we should deconstruct the glorious essence of their choices, so much as to agree.”

Yes, forgive me, a dirty efficiency whore looking to be more effective in marketing my book about funny shit, and entertaining, never begging for sympathy despite a semi-private survival of cancer, or hoping that one would simply donate, but offering words in fair exchange for entertainment not constrained by Google ads and horrible pupil killing dissentry and disgusting cardboard entertainment about another cat being walked by a fictional owner, or another flat dissertation on the meaning of love and why it will kill all your dreams, so just listen to your Smith’s cassette and you will figure out now came sooner than you thought  – forgive m…

You*: “The fools you suffer on Twitter are of your own making. It is merely your imagination, and want for some kind of excitement, or a need to fill that void, with some kind of creativity. Some of the animals in the forest, are vile and nasty, and are still part of it. Some are whores and suckers of meat sticks their children and wives are oblivious to, but know this. They have a role, and so you can allow them to do what they wish, but protect yourself from them by using more tools. Being aware of who and what they are, before they can attempt to get into your mind. Do not be fearful of their lack of cackles, or their support. You do not need it. Please read the piece of paper you can take with you, and post of it on your website. Inform the people of the world, that they exist. Those that have whored themselves out for number, and with no creativity and action, but thinking they can now control you. Mankind, will never advance beyond the state of Twitter, if we do not stay the course.”

Sancte redemptor scriptor, fides vestra

Fides est nobis creativum winners,
Nunc et in miseria vestri, ad iustitiam.
Futuis iudicium vestrum, quod suus ‘valor est vilis mihi.
Mea vita est, intellectus meus.
Ego in harena quisquam.

*abide*

*please read this section out loud while reading it. If you do not read it, I will not be able to hear you. As such, please go back, and read it again loud, and I will get back to you when I can. If you don’t eat your meat, how do you expect to get any pudding? You can’t get any pudding, if you don’t eat the meat.

**contact is imminent as a matter of choice, not fate.

By

Take my hand.

 photo samwhich.jpg

Invisible can be right out in the open. Like a stripper, dancing on a pole – firmly planted into the hot beef gyro. Subtle, yes – but in case some were wondering why this photo is here, and how come there is an audio link on the first Gus quote? Not sure, this was an older draft of something…

“I don’t want to skewer you with words alone, I long for the invitation to your cowardice in an arena of action and context.”

Gus smirked.

It had been some time planning this little event. Not so much a plan in fact, as it was a hope that a hand would be given and extended to meet. It had weathered it’s festering well.

The solid ball of rubber had been used to stop the sink from flowing water when the hard metal pressed against it. Shallow the nudge, but quick the cut of the flow. The nearest it would come to metal again would be the chain that held it. Want for nothing but the swing that would see it come crushing down on the skull. Bone replacing metal in a cold embrace opening the tap on a new kind of dark hell, but a knock before true entry.

“I never meant it to be about you.”

“Fuck you.”

Understanding physics is not required to feel the blunt force thrust, thunk only in a camera’s eye to ensure you can hold the baton around that corner, when you hear that train coming. Conducting steam from the forged heat that lashed out streams of hot blood, Gus swung with the fury of the anger.

Vengeance that was fed by the poison and the attempted destruction of calcified hate.

“Mary, and Stavros – feel.”

Time in these seconds held to the dynamic of high speeding footage would do little justice to the sounds of what lay in these walls. White had been so Clockwork Orange.

The new Glockwork Orange was much more suited to the feel of what was here, but Gus and the boys knew he had a special place for the color. It held the notes and the staffs, as spilled disgust sped towards it like some comet drawn to one last burst of hope before it’s red blended into the citrus like pigment. All the world is a stave motherfucker, sing the song you played that night.

In the HD footage hum, pock marks on his face were small semblances of the moon landing set in ’69. A nation now horrified by the ideal of walking in a man’s mind, tasting the steps that each swing took.

The ball was just under a kilogram. 2.20462 pounds.

The oblique line.

Parted.

Forced.

The masseter had no chance, it was held in place.

For now.

“Do you know that some kindness is paid in ways only understood by currencies not intended to exchange hands many times?”

The fucking eye’s had little prospect to but cause a flicker of the pins, each thrust only dug them in deeper. They had been specially made when he had learned his skills at flies. Magnified under a lens. 36 hours from forge to blessing.

He had blessed them. In prayer and in faith, in the name of the moments past.

Vitruvian angles splayed the protractor extracting a self-indulgent commerce. Justified deposits.

Slips in the game of sobriety that were to extract an interest rate never seen in the clauses projected on the parchment posts.

Offered crucifix, an overlaid rollerball on platinum shining in the sun reflected from man made surfaces countering the blinding light of the way.

Water just flowed.

It danced off her face when she was happy, and it was all he longed for in each of his days. How he missed her.

One of the men knelt down to pick up the hand.

In his reflections, a million thoughts poured from his mind. Not one satisfied by the look of a man, once again wondering between the state of death, misery and hallucination.

“No.”

He had studied all of these years, he had no idea any of the things that were mechanical magic and patience would exact such a toll on the mind. Forever more he would remember not only what he had seen, but also what was about to play out in front of him.

The orange ball too, was made for this occasion, planned for at this stage. After the first beating to unconsciousness, its intention would be made clear, thrust past the horizontal lines blessing the tube for a solitary measurement before disposal. Purpose serving.

Two consonants of the elixir saw the eyes stop bouncing off the flesh curtains that would never close again to bring rest to a hell they would be made to pay.

“Nice to see you back with me.” Gus said. “Fucking stinky little bastard eh?”

The smell of last night’s corporate waste had come to haunt the proceedings. Redolent, in re-doing what was lent indeed. Rancid reminder of the foul nature that stood in front of him.

“This; is another special gift. Not only made, but wrapped for you. I wanted to spare no expense, so had gone to find a couple of things.”

The “glass” was nothing short of precious gemstones, orange emeralds from the Medellin region, outside of Cartegena. It was not a trip for pleasure, there was none. It was a tale he would tell once more in his life, and that was told. Had you heard it, you know the trip had been an investment in the pleasure that would come now. It had been re-invested, a retained earnings for his hardship and suffering. It mattered not what anyone would have thought, if they found out about it.

They never would.

Ilk the like of those stranded payments, left in the capital cost allocation. The payments were not even discovered, seen, understood. They were always clean, they had come from the “government” body that had sanctioned it. It was nothing short of a corrupt and lucid brothel of pulp fiction it was, and so there is little in the way of anyone asking how the money was being allocated. That was the nature of those that were part of the hiatus from the social convention. The chasm that had to be paid for entry, was not one many would cross, let alone accomplish.

Trust, in the way, was very clear. It had nothing to do with the grass being any colour than that which it was.

Orange.
Fuck.

“The orange emerald’s are rare, in any size. Fragments of them are said to be able to carry the wishes of the dead, and so they were left to listen for all these years. Noting with each passing second the ones that had passed, multiplying them like some kind of Sun Tzu parable repeated over and over as one performs. Like knuckle balls. Every play Nerf baseball in the house?”

The muffled replies were hulking hopes of sound, but swallowed to the depths of Titanic forks and whimsical stair knobs covered in coral and cold. The pins comforted by the small drops that now had been swung into place by another man, not dressed the same. He wore the same clothing Ghetz had.

Another one of the men in the white coats approached as if on call for the queue that was unspoken, rehearsed in the depth of the mind. The mechanical hum provided a startled look, as close to one as could come from a dying man now aware his ankles had been clamped and now were snapped into position.

“Little off for me, but that is ok. It is self adjusting.” Gus tapped the first button.

Pistons gulped air, and the air gulped the cracks. Bone at that pressure sounds like ice dancing on a lake’s shore in the winter months. Magnified, an awl of sound.

The ankles dangled, but the skin was in tact. The machine had been calibrated to understand the right resistance. He called the equation, Blue Suede Schole’s.

“Prefer these ones to concrete every day of the week since. Elvis would be so proud. Mind if I do a J? I want to watch you aware of everything. Each of these chemicals and parts has been specially designed for you. I had a team of ‘them’ provide me with the components. You would not even be considered to know the name of the institution they came from, or the gulch they live in. Nor should your kind, ever.”

Gus cupped the perfectly rolled joint in front of his face as he lit it. The Zippo never failed.

Ever.

It was instinct.

Of the kind that extended his hand in one motion, placing it with a tic behind the button apparatus dangling from the pocket on his chest. A gruesome Cirque flourish, provided it to his left never losing grasp of the eye’s that studied everything, for any kind of hope.

There was none.

“You are not going to be able to say anything to save you any type of agony. There is nothing left to say, it is all about doing, and what I am going to do is ensure I get at that…in the most enjoyable manner I can. That is why…I chose to find another kind of magic… lose…Cartagena…do you roll those gena’s…gggggeeeehhhhnnnnasss…you know where that is?” asking with a marked metronome, he needed to make this last.

Gus’s face instantly changing, “Listen here man. I had considered the barbed wire around a broomstick option, but it was just too clean. To ‘standard’ for this whole affair.” and his arms danced again, “You are just blessed to know I had spent so much time as a pot pacifist to be able to come up with such love for you, cheeky monkey.”

Every piece of the ball that was now in his hands glistened, and it was alive.

Pleasure was not of the same scope as the orange grass.

Here, it was defined because there was no trying.

The was, is a beautiful place to graze, as the wave of calm reflected nowhere in his gaze but inside.

To a state of…

*abide*

By

Souvlaki wine, magic chop.

Good morning, Gus here. Fetaman has left me alone. So I was reading a string of articles in the Globe and Mail this morning, and it had started with the Rob Carrick article titled “Job seeker on Gen Y’s struggles: “I didn’t think I’d be here at 30’”  A very interesting piece that illustrates a telling tale of a cycle, that is all about context. I am fond of the context smirk often, in fact, Fetaman uses it a lot. I introduced it to him. Yeah, I am anxious to weigh in on a number of matters, and consider “right.”

From there I had proceeded to click on a link of his that spoke of this blogger (*financefox.ca) and how the practiced “No Spend Days”. This new cult of personality has recently popped up more and more since the days of the Cappuccino Hair Bands. Seems so long ago, but those were good days.

Making your own coffee in the office. Being proud you saved that couple of bucks, and taking it to the next level. *context smirk* That was divine, grand. Divine. Hell, you even went out and bought $164.73 of sealable and transportable containers to be able to take in leftovers, and soon enough, you could even be shopping each day for fresh little bits of delight you could proudly boast in the office as the bundle of joy you are.

Mmmmmmmmm…Berry Pomegranite Mio…

So is my desire to sit here and start to “complain” or whine about what needs to be done, and how tough it may be out there to do what you need to do or why you choose to do it?

Not quite – I am more aligned, and of the same opinion ranges as this writer speaks of, in his reply to the initial letter written to Rob Carrick. It is titled “Why this 29-year-old believes Gen Y doesn’t have it that bad.”

No, I think I would rather look at the positive side of it all. Just like you do? Consider how if you really look at the “richness” that you have in your life, surrounding you, and you have adjusted the means and the ends for the “revenue” you seek in your life, then you will be able to live on much less of a “spend” from the financial side. Fuck. The opposing side of this Yang, is that Ying requires a lot more work and effort, they balance each other, and Ying is sparing when it comes to creature comforts. He lives in a way that many feel romantic about, until their month of joy has been eroded to menial tasks that will provide warmth, and food, and joy of a kind found only in the mountains of the mind. Chopping fucking wood in minus 30 degree weather, with a senior citizen is not exactly a fucking task for the faint of heart. But when you have a purpose, to make some wine, the challenge was that my wine was a vine. The grapes were “different”.

Wine is wine. It is from grapes, sweet or sour. It is fermented with time. It inebriates, as does it’s main ingredient. It swirls and aerates the elixirs of the mind, providing the same intoxicating reflections, effects, lapses of memory, depressions, joys, good times and bad times, wealth and poverty. All of it, inebriated by time.

Time makes the vine grow. Time makes the orange show.

Syntax changes today, and the only difference becomes how we consume the whine.

Consider weight of the whine, as something that has to be measured. It must be qualified. So you have to add subjective measurements such as age, and quantity or size, is the whine intelligent with an IQ that is acceptable and has been given a good “score” by the ratings guru’s, pundits and promoters and readers.

The readers can see, that the whine has an h in it. The listeners, will have to imagine that, to have the capacity to draw that conclusion themselves. It ain’t easy drawing conclusions at any age, is it?

Is this any different life at any of these ages? Of course there are, at different stages of life, your conclusions will be driven by what it is that has been delineated by the “age” – time, credentials, net worth, penis size, cup size…I-fucking-Q.  It Is all about your form. The world has changed and physical versus cerebral and cognitive empirical measures and subjective objectivity are always important boundaries to look at when you determine where you are. They are the fence posts on the Parameter acreage you own from birth. Expanding it or contracting it, is an environmental manifestation of the physical reality called you.

As humans, we then automatically create a stigma, a dogma, a viewpoint on other’s from our own experiences, and find entertainment in the universe of the mind as we consider how we like some things, and despise others. Why we are more entitled to something, than that other person who clearly is not as good as we are, so you must beat them back or harm them in some way to proceed. Of course, the second that many of you read that you pounced from the mental soap box to scream of your charity work, and your giving nature and all that you do to be kind, caring and some form of a religion based deity that has wings and can solve your problems.

Well, so can a shitload of Red Bulls and Vodka.

Trust me, it is only a temporary fix.

Just like breakfast of Corn Flakes and Crown Royal.

Just like plugging into a shit J.O.B. – it may sound like some kind of multi-level marketing jingle to have you sign on the dotted line so you can eventually move to Bora Bora after you make the millions saving your friends and families money on basic cable, phones, internet – and you are right. I had heard it from a douchebag, that was a miserable failure trying to build his life back up by telling lies, fuck him. Fuck anyone who is going to try to continue build up their lives using lies and not revealing them, and that is a very important reflection point is for me, and in fact it appears society is very clear. Honesty is the most valuable currency in this day and age, and transparency, as a result of it, whether you like it or not, is here.

I honestly do believe that a job is “Just Over Broke”.

No matter what kind of wealth you have, you are living within your means. You believe, that if the Jones’s are indeed driving that car, and have a debt ratio of X:Y, then yes, you too can be living within your means, if the means, become your own. If you accept “them”, then by natural collusion, you will unite with their means. Their means.

Means judged by others.

Not my fucking gig, thanks.

So does that then make me right, or am I wrong?  Who has a right that is more important – can one right shove all-in on another and always be the Royal Fucking Flush? Are these physical rights or spiritual rights? Does this right consider the right and just associates and peers, fellows and humans that sit beside us, in this commune circle delineated by the chairs we sit on?

Each right is different in it’s own way, until you fly a little higher by whatever means you need to so you can spend a little time with Jonathon. Silly fucking seagull, or prophet of understanding that at this height, they are all just big box store data points that lead to one giant balance sheet in the sky.

Immigrant parents came and worked like dogs. Literally.

Wandering the streets to find jobs, or trying to build them and having them fail, into bankruptcy.

There is one very simple solution to all of this bullshit, fuck.

Stop the victim thinking. Just think internal. The only victim has been my own self victimizing itself and blaming others.

Stop your fucking whining, and make your own wine with no h.

Drink it, enjoy it. It is the elixir of life.

It will change your life.

For the better, it always does.

But remember, my wine is not a vine. My vine, is actually orange grass.

“It will change your life for the better.” Always does.

Your wine, my vine. I found that vine because I looked for the orange in everyday. Somedays I chose to share it.

The world becomes a better place.

Other days I choose to nurture it, make sure you do so in order to help it become a belief grenade.

In the past, those belief grenades have changed. They have been brine grenades, taint grenades, the have been lie grenades.

What I do know, whatever you do,  when you do launch it…people will realize for what it is.

Me? I am just launching a biography. About myself. Gus Xortopoulas.

I will tell you right now, the grass, it’s fucking orange.

*abide*