Horrible Self-Indulgence. The Spirit of Amendment. Filthy Shitting Squalor.

Retrospect is a bitch. Especially when it is facilitated by neatly-archived hyperlinks. We truly live in an age where embarassing self-reflection is at our fingertips. (And the rueful blushing begins....... now.)

The past... months of Cultural Snow have been a case-study in literary (loose sense of the word) self-indulgence. Especially intoxicated self-indulgence (see previous post)-- arguably the finest sort. For anyone who still comes to this page in hopes of something worth reading, this is me apologizing-- and furiously so-- for subjecting you to the chronic disjoint and half-baked poesy that is my inner monologue. Even I get tired of it, and as befits a Generation of Convenience the bottle is right here when I do. (Abusive drinking is funny! Haha!) As such comforts may or may not be available to you, dear friend, I'll try to filter for you again. Like we used to. In the old days when things was good, baby.

Let's ease on back to what I do better: (relatively) complete sentences in (mostly) cohesive paragraphs. Hellooooo prose. (I will understand your silence to be welcoming, darling.) So in the spirit of amendment, let's get this thang back on track.

I) Chill, a. - The quality of being relaxed, relaxing; laidback.
Ex: "Oh yeah, he's a pretty chill guy."
Ex: "Nah, the workload is pretty chill."

II) Chillax, v. - The haphazard union (some might venture further and declare abomination) of the two words "chill" and "relax."
Ex: "After my final, I'm gonna fuckin' chillax."

III) Stoked, a. - The quality of being really fucking pleased; typically about something in specific.
Ex: "I was so stoked to find out the bitch wasn't preggers after all."

Contemporary American English Vernacular: concrete evidence that humanity pulled itself out of the filthy shitting squalor of the apes, and we can put ourselves right back there again, damn it.

Kid Stuff: Polished Rocks.

I had a rock collection. I know how the game plays. Trust me.

Hearts of black and brittle. Gather up a lonely handful: tumble.
Toss um in a box (plus a pinch of polish) and fire up that clatter-clap motor.
Voila! Black Forest! (Not the one with the ham.)

Gingerly pick which strikes your fancy. Toy and twirl it in your hands.
Marvel as Little Lump greedily drinks up your warmth, heatsponge.
And friction is an intoxicating accessory to the incident.
(Stone-shy mumble, "Can we hold tight 'til one-heat?" Isn't equilibrium sexy?)

We should be realistic here, however. Conflagration prophesies itself: it will flag.
(Let's try that again, simpler. Fires don't burn forever. Even Old Sun don't got himself a hydrogen boo-fay buffet.)

Perhaps you've danced too close and dabbled too long-- Little Lump will slip and slump from your palm. And equilibrium is a game for two.

But what do they call it: thermal inertia? Let's pretty that up: stones remember long.
Example. Touch the sidewalk. See how Cement remembers Old Sun long past sundown? Thermal inertia.

Give it a few hours. He will forget (though the forgetting is slow).

Funny little things, like stones.