"They were on their way to a funeral"

I always knew something was strange. I could never quite put my finger on it but I think I finally nailed it yesterday. Have you ever noticed that NOBODY on the British Secret Service has a british accent? I mean what the fuck. We're in the heart of London and James Bond sounds american. what the hell. even the old guys behind the desks who tell him all the info all have american accents. thats crap. it ruined the whole atmosphere of being a secret agent when i uncovered that secret of uncontinuity.

Phu-Yuck???

this was the day that wouldnt end. i think my head is broken because of all the exams. making me all sad about life, which is bullshit. i hate people like that.



so fuck that. heres some paintloving goodness.

I am the triple integral of introvert from negative infinity to positive infinity

Well, I tasted fresh air for the first time in weeks and I'd like to quote Thom Yorke in saying that I forgot the smell of the warm summer air, but it is a wednesday and it smelled more like garbage outside due to the collection.
unfortunately.

i sat for a while in the early afternoon today drinking whisky and wondering how to better my impression of Christopher Walken. so far all i sound like when i try to do it is chinese. "i have a feva, and the ony cure is mo cowbell" the impression is going nowhere fast and even faster now that im actually trying.

im in the midst of cooking up something fantastically awesome to say but all i can muster is cheese breath. perhaps i will draw a comic later.

If i ever have kids, I'm going to say "Yeah..well I fucked your mom." to win every argument.

To those who wont leave me alone about it, heres another spontaneous comic.

Have a Break. Have a Peter.

today i felt like spending all the money i earned this morning so i went to chapters and left with an orgy of books. i got the complete works of poe and the house of leaves, both which will keep me entertained for a good while. i got through the intro of house of leaves and passed out midpage to some classical music from my typical collection. it was not until i awoke (to the moonlight sonata no less) that i realized i had yet again experienced another delusion in the short period of time i had been incapacitated. it was this, among my other nightly bizarre experiences that made me decide that i need to write a book. not some pussy ass short story but a motherfucking novel. one as erratic as my train of thought that meanders along paths that never seem to converge. in order to do so however i decided that im going to write it in the 5 minutes each morning after i wake up when my mind is still in the framework of fear from the fantasies the previous evening in order to scatter details. eventually ill throw it all together and it may work or it may not. its worth a shot. pretty much im just gonna let my subconscious ride this one. maybe ill call it 'the posterboy of disfunction'. that could work.