Fist Fights, Sysiphus, and the Rest

[And now a brief word from the chairman. He's not the only one who seems to be in transition these days... --dan]

The new year has been a slow steady climb toward some point of singularity off in the infinite distance of my life. I moved back from Colorado to resume a broken relationship with a very attractive young girl who seems to have a die hard lock on my heart. However, events from the hellish year of our lord, known as 2005, have caused us to unravel in a most undesirable fashion; However, I've managed to pass off my neurosis to my sister and have acquired a new found optimism about the approaching Eschaton. We are doing a bit better, as friends, and I have high hopes for the next couple months. Just so long as I don't resume my tripping binges I should be able to maintain a head on my ego. As words and circumstance accumulate, I've discovered that reality is far more malleable than previously thought. Still though, I seem to be treading through this river upstream, inch by inch and moment by moment. Getting nowhere fast.

Today my problems at home came to head, resulting in me punching my loving father in the temple. I feel bad about it, but on the other hand it was a near primordial reaction. In the midst of a heated argument over the usual nothing of family matters. I launched myself across the kitchen to find something. He standing in the way assumed I was attacking him and grabbed my shirt. My gut instinct these days when something of that nature occurs is to start beating the shit out of the person's face. Why? Because during my time in Colorado I have been attacked my two Crusties, a nazi, and a fat kid. I managed to survive each incident by the sheer luck that my cousin is a very strong violent kid wielding Nanchaku! Anyway, so I've developed a sort of instinctual reaction to punch any threat directly in the temple. As a result I hit my dad! Fucked up. I felt terrible almost immediately, but still being in fight mode, I threw him off me, and ran for the door.

Once outside I decided I needed a cigarette, but had nothing but a small amount of captain black. So I searched the garage and found an old Isaac Asimov book, titled Foundation's Edge. For those unfamiliar with the series, or author. Asimov wrote something like 3,900 books throughout his lifetime. Pretty fucking amazing, and the Foundation series were the coolest. It was about a developed science known as Psychohistory. Manipulating this science was a dead man who put a plan into action known as the Foundation. The purpose was to create senarios in which only one outcome was available. Basically, its like the Modest Mouse song... The universe works on a math equation and it can be manipulated.

Point is, I tore a page out of the back and used it to roll the most perfect cigarette I have EVER smoked. Also, Asimov papers have a very esoteric flavor. Wonderful. Now before I trail into any other boring topics, I'm going to go to bed.