HOME | DD

Description
[ Typewriter Pixels, Pt.I, Pg. I ]

      I've been sitting in front of an old typewriter for about 30 minutes now, trying to think of something to write. It really is just pointless. You don't just think of something to write, at least I don't. It just... comes to you. But, I have nothing else better to do. And so i'm sitting here, on my bed, with said typewriter.
      The washing machine spins. The dryer tumbles. It smells like soap.
      I only smell the soap. I'm listening to music on an old CD player.

      Any time of day during the summer, chances are you can see me doing one of 4 things, often at the same time: Listening to music,  writing something, reading something, or staring at a computer screen.
      Or, going for a walk, barefoot, a couple of blocks down from where I live, to a small store. Usually to buy some Vivarin or other caffienated substance.
      Right now it's tommorow. 12am.

      The music plays. I passivley listen. The typewriter spins and clicks its typewriter song.
      All is well in the world of my bedroom.

                          CHPTR 02 - AIRPLANES, BEVERAGES, ETC
      If you were to pass over my house in an airplane and for some reason decide to look down, what you would see is a series of houses, perfectly aligned.
      Yes, I admit it, I live in a suburb. Not an upper class, Beverly Hills suburb, but still a suburb. I live amongst Prozac-Junkies and far-right christian conservatives who punch the clock 9 to 5 and then go home to watch FOX News. Perfect people who act perfect look perfect and feel perfect becuase their medication makes them that way.
      One could say I don't exactly fit in.
So please look. Look down from your airplane. Can you see me? Can you see me, in the 5th house down, with it's blue trim and weeded yard? Can you see me through the window, writing this?
      I hope not, I'm in my boxers at the moment.
      So don't look.

      I open my door, walk left down the hall, and head to the fridge. Somewhere along there I run into a wall and succeed in waking everybody up, Therefore failing the whole "Be quiet and don't wake anyone up" idea. I open the fridge, looking for something to drink. We have chocolate syrup, expired orange juice, and stuff still leftover from a thanksgiving many eons past, which, mind you, tried to bite me when i attempted to throw it away.
      I contempelate. Perhaps I could make an orange-chocolate smoothie? But no, we have no blender. And i'm sick enough as it is.

      As to how I did this whilst holding a typewriter that weighs about as bunch as a Mac truck is still a mystery. But go with it.

                           CHPTR 03 - WALKS, STREETLIGHTS, TANS, ETC
             (This chapter has been written, just not typed up yet. I'll get back to you on it)

Description
[ Typewriter Pixels, Pt.I, Pg. I ]

      I've been sitting in front of an old typewriter for about 30 minutes now, trying to think of something to write. It really is just pointless. You don't just think of something to write, at least I don't. It just... comes to you. But, I have nothing else better to do. And so i'm sitting here, on my bed, with said typewriter.
      The washing machine spins. The dryer tumbles. It smells like soap.
      I only smell the soap. I'm listening to music on an old CD player.

      Any time of day during the summer, chances are you can see me doing one of 4 things, often at the same time: Listening to music,  writing something, reading something, or staring at a computer screen.
      Or, going for a walk, barefoot, a couple of blocks down from where I live, to a small store. Usually to buy some Vivarin or other caffienated substance.
      Right now it's tommorow. 12am.

      The music plays. I passivley listen. The typewriter spins and clicks its typewriter song.
      All is well in the world of my bedroom.

                          CHPTR 02 - AIRPLANES, BEVERAGES, ETC
      If you were to pass over my house in an airplane and for some reason decide to look down, what you would see is a series of houses, perfectly aligned.
      Yes, I admit it, I live in a suburb. Not an upper class, Beverly Hills suburb, but still a suburb. I live amongst Prozac-Junkies and far-right christian conservatives who punch the clock 9 to 5 and then go home to watch FOX News. Perfect people who act perfect look perfect and feel perfect becuase their medication makes them that way.
      One could say I don't exactly fit in.
So please look. Look down from your airplane. Can you see me? Can you see me, in the 5th house down, with it's blue trim and weeded yard? Can you see me through the window, writing this?
      I hope not, I'm in my boxers at the moment.
      So don't look.

      I open my door, walk left down the hall, and head to the fridge. Somewhere along there I run into a wall and succeed in waking everybody up, Therefore failing the whole "Be quiet and don't wake anyone up" idea. I open the fridge, looking for something to drink. We have chocolate syrup, expired orange juice, and stuff still leftover from a thanksgiving many eons past, which, mind you, tried to bite me when i attempted to throw it away.
      I contempelate. Perhaps I could make an orange-chocolate smoothie? But no, we have no blender. And i'm sick enough as it is.

      As to how I did this whilst holding a typewriter that weighs about as bunch as a Mac truck is still a mystery. But go with it.

                           CHPTR 03 - WALKS, STREETLIGHTS, TANS, ETC
             (This chapter has been written, just not typed up yet. I'll get back to you on it)