The stream of consciousness is a stream on which many of the wold's most upstanding and cocksure writers have swam down in order to get ideas and cures for writer's block. It is widely believed by these writers that by putting their block into the stream it will dissolve into magic dust, especially if it is a wooden block. Wooden blocks can be taken to lumberjacks, alternately, for a more awesome destruction. Not many writers write about lumberjacks though. Perhaps if more writers took their blocks to be jacked by lumberjacks they would write about them more. Poor lumberjacks must feel so underrepresented.
It's very curious because lumberjacks are really quite awesome, after all. What could be more awesome than jacking lumber? Well, I think it's pretty cool. Just because I find lumberjacks very good and awesome role models people think I'm gay. I, however, know that by putting both "lumber" and "jack" together, the two otherwise gay terms become quite straight., like myself. The people who call me gay just because I like lumberjacks aren't fond of me much, but it's okay because I'm not fond of them either. I don't think of them when I go throughout the day, unless I'm taking a rather painful shit. A habit of mine has always been willing pain unto others during my shits. Is that unusual? I could go for a nice shit right now. It'll take the stress off my life.
Stress is a major annoyance. It's annoyed me ever since I've gotten it. I don't even know why I have all this stress in the first place... I think she might have given it to me as a birthday present or something. I'm not too fond of birthdays. They bring out the worst in me. Like that time I turned 16.
I turned 16, you see? I was so happy until I got my presents, and it would so happen that she happened to give me 6 whole cartons of stress. I didn't know it would have such a profound effect on me in the future, but what did I know then? I was only 16. I know now, though. That's all that matters. I'm fershluggining hungry.
And after a brief visit to the pantry Edit
Have you ever wondered that you, yourself might be becoming the pantry? I've been getting this feeling a lot recently and my friends tell me its nothing. They just deny it because they know that I've become their pantry, and if they admitted it to me then I might reject them and go pantrize to someone else. I hate my friends. I guess this is why so many writers kill themselves. Because they've become fucking pantries. All I really have now is my food, and even that's not all that good. I really ought to get a job and sweat off some pounds. I'd love to become a lumberjack, but people might just start calling me gay again.
Funny how things go full circle like this, eh? Except it was more like a square rather than a circle. More defined corners and edges, you dig? You probably don't. I know I've never dug anything since '78. The 60s died that very day to me, when I accidentally discovered my grandma's unhealthy obsession with grave robbing. It was really awkward when she dug up her own grave and stole her own jewelry. I could barely watch, so I ran off into the forest and befriended a few lumberjacks.
They touched me.