the misconceptions of a 9 year old

michael phelps is hardcore and all, but hardly as badass as john rambo.

all I need to do to get in the shape of my life is crawl around in the dirt, eat maggots, and live in a lean-to hewn from body parts of the local sheriff.
careful, don't waste any...

broken noses,

broken dreams.

I ever tell you about breaking that girl's nose in fourth grade? my dad put me in judo when I was a little kid, thought a little more aggressiveness could do me some good. sarah range was a crush of mine, she wanted me to demonstrate some of my moves. I broke her nose. accidental.

if only my pops had stuck me in gymnastics. I coulda' used a little more gymnasty in my life.

here horsie-horsie

you woke me up. I was having an inspirational dream and you woke me up. digging deep into the iner workings of my soul. why are you even awake at 9 in the morning? pewie.

In my dream I was in a rodeo, my trusty steed a was a paint,
cool as gandhi. the clowns, they were everywhere, and weren't too happy with me for some reason, the murderous clowns. they unleashed the beast, a rabid bucking bronco sent to do their bidding. it bucked and kicked, eyes wild as fire. scary, somethin' fierce, foaming and whatnot. but my paint she hung in there, and I began to realize that just because we're taking a thrashing doesn't mean we're gonna' fall off the horse.

come to pub quiz.

starting

y0.

tasty talk today, reality check and pesto. killer combination.

it's funny, we're all so spoiled. more often than not things are looking up, trick is to step back far enough to realize it. I'm listening to nina. I wonder how often she doubted herself. how often she hesitated because she was afraid. how often she got in her own way. and if she was ever proud of herself.

don't forget to make art.