a privy for your thoughts

today's been pretty average so far:
I listened to a goose symphony
I explored two different forgotten ruins (one tiny and dirty, one vast and unclean)
I skipped two lectures (one physically, one mentally [note: the second lecture hasn't ended yet. I think])
I thought about money and class in multiple contexts
I lost my favorite hat (it'll show up at the grounds - or it won't! so therefore I can tell the future)

and then in the process of losing my hat, I realized that there was something nagging at me all day long, metanagging if you will, I kind of annoyance at having to wonder what's bothering me, the kind of thing that can only be solved with a nice, sting-y tentacle-slap.
but I think I'm tired of being slapped by the same tentacles all the time.

A thought experiment:
I think I figured out ruthlessness.
You can only be ruthless when you know the end (the goal, the conclusion, &c.).
Then you can ignore all the distractions en route (and thus the chief virtue of ruthlessness is its efficiency towards the thing you want to do).
I would argue that if you already know the end
that is to say, think you know the end
then you've already done something wrong - and here's why:
say you know the outcome of a thing.
you're either right, in which case, why bother doing the thing?*
or you're wrong, in which case, maybe ignoring all the distractions en route wasn't such a hot idea after all.

Very abstract, yes, but we can now apply this, for example, to show why my papers always get mediocre grades (left as an exercise to the reader).
*A bonus critical thought question: how does the above theory apply to xtianity? to your own metaphilosophy?

To conclude this particular ramble,
I desperately need more ruth in my life.

ink-spitters never run out of ink

as i swam through my hair amidst the rhythmic chirp of crickets, i felt my tentacles stirring. two emerged from the tips of my pelvic bones and i felt two burst from the middle of my back, rubbing pleasantly against my vertebrae. a fifth itch in my ankle became a squirming mess of suckers on the bathroom floor and a sixth slimy arm slithered soundlessly out of my belly button. from each palm explodes more than a handful of angry writhing seaflesh that triples my armspan. donning a pink bandanna and with a mouthful of ink, i am a bomb, borne from hard dirt and soft grass and speckled assholes.

the smoke of my cigarette hangs in the air and curls into a dragon, diving toward the light as i watch. i have three buttholes distributed around the back yard but i put it out under a rock and then, after spitting on the end, throw it into a large reedy bush.

Sea Creature in a Blazer

Offices are surprisingly quiet. My tentacles squelching against the keys interspersed with sparse, business-y negotiation are the only rare sounds here. I am fairly thirsty. Odd for a sea-dweller. (What is the underwater equivalent of the water cooler? I wonder.) It's rather like a library in here.

Oh no, I am spending the summer in a surrogate Reg.