Numbness as Warning

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

It was like he was plugged into an electrical current,
twitching, jerking, tranced out in a shaken frenzy,
receiving magnetic transmissions of mimetic themes,

Sound wave patterns on the scanner–

Darkly melodic to the rhythm of white fists,
flashing out of his black overcoat,
a new stage trance, seizing out of the car onto the ground–

“We didn’t know what to do. We held him down.”

Love tore him apart.

Untitled for Now

Transmitter wrote this mid-afternoon:

I love naming things. Perhaps I have a bit of an “Adam complex.” I want to have kids just so I can name them. I spend far too much time coming up with fantastic names for my potential spawn.

The latest is Alias. Then I could call him/her (asexual names rock) Ali for short or maybe Ass. And, oh, the irony when they have to fill out forms that ask if they have any aliases.

Better still, I could just go with Anonymous. Then, my child would have claim to all of those wonderful anonymous works. Then again, they might just get loads of hate mail and beatings for leaving mean anonymous comments.

I guess they’ll just be “Untitled” for now.

Aluminum Died for my Sins

Transmitter wrote this late at night:

My brand new MacBook has a dent in it. I foolishly left it on the floor in the path of the chotzky that fell from bookshelf as I slammed my knee into it. At first I was only concerned with the throbbing pain in my knee. Then, I lamented my marred laptop, realizing that while my knee will heal, my laptop is forever scarred. The clean, brushed aluminum surface is broken. The OCD in me started to twitch. I wanted to scream.

While I repeatedly rubbed the gash, trying to make it disappear, I calmed down. Nothing is perfect. The dent gives my laptop character. I’ll invent some fantastic story about how it got there:

While building houses in Mexico, I pulled out my laptop to refresh myself on the schematics. Just as I opened it a misguided nail ricocheted toward my face. The nail, headed straight for my eye, instead bounced off of my open laptop. Were it not for Apple’s sturdy metal design you and I would be talking eye to eyes. Having come so close to mutilation and possibly death, I now take my laptop everywhere with me and proudly tell the story of how my laptop was damaged in exhange for my life.


Transmitter wrote this in the early morning:


Oft the warning signs are right in front of us. My first apprehension of my hotel was the smell that hit me across the face and then slithered deep inside my nostrils as I opened the door. A thick myst of cleaning procucts, stale smoke, and sex occupied my first floor room. When my head finally shook off the odorous cloud, I tepidly reached for the light switch. The light barely illuminated the dank room. At first I thought the orange glow was coming from the low-watt light bulb, but then I rounded the corner and saw the orange bed spread. I like the color orange. The bed spread was not a likeable color. It was a mixture of salmon and maroon, a nice shade of vomit (the kind produced from a night of too much pizza and beer). I turned the light off and crawled into the, now muted, lumpy salmon. Too bad I can still smell in the dark.

A Circle of Things to Do

Transmitter wrote this around lunchtime:

“I’m not dead yet.”
-Woodie Guthrie

A list of things I want to do before I die.

  1. Get a tattoo
  2. Jump out of a plane
  3. Travel Japan with no money
  4. Two girls at once
  5. Heroin

I’m sure other things will come along the way, but I hate lists.

Rubbing One Out

Transmitter wrote this in the early evening:

Jerking off has come to represent two near-polar opposites in our culture: 1. A pleasurable act performed on oneself in private or in the context of intimacy. 2. Showing disdain by ejaculating onto the shunned object. (An offense worse than spitting or urinating on something, perhaps because it requires more time and effort.)

It is under the second usage that I exercise my disgust for verbal masturbation. Verbal masturbators defines those people who talk incestly, louder and louder, and even repeat themselves until they have brought their eardrums to a reverberating climax with the sound of their own voice.

I hate those fuckers.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor

Transmitter wrote this in the early morning:

You can hear everything through my apartment walls. I’ve only met my neighbor across the hall once. His name is Michael. He has colon cancer.

He has spent the last eight months being misdiagnosed and racking up thousands of dollars worth of medical expenses. He spends his time watching sports. He’ll probably die soon.