And another week begins. Yee-haw. At least I've got another four-day weekend coming up, and on one of those days, I get to see Slayer.

Good things in the immediate future aside, I'd still rather not go to work at all. Sleeping sounds a lot better, and clearly more useful.

Remember to buy Axis Mundi Sum for everyone this Christmas!

I know I've mentioned it before, but...

Peter, thanks for those handful of days I got to spend at your house alone, and thanks for always being one of my best friends.

I wish that both of us were a few years older, so that we could have enjoyed the Internet Bubble before it so rudely burst.

A million thanks to all of my friends of all stripes. You keep me sane and happy, though to fair, I wish you'd hook me up with some dames. I could use a kiss.

I either need to a) stop listening to Avril Lavigne, or b) get a life. Maybe I need to do both.

No matter what the case, I would really like to fall in love. Unlike what bullshit vidoes imply, strolling and/or loafing around town will not produce love. I really want to say "fuck this world," but the last time I fell in love, it was under highly expected circumstances, so who knows? Maybe I will meet a top-notch chick over a beer, an Avril Lavigne song, or staring at Starbucks employees at 6:30 AM (which, oddly enough, I've done more than once, thinking about how pitiable they are).

I'm a chump. Always have been, and always will be.

No big deal.

My brother's been installing Linux all weekend, so I've been without Internet access. I can't really complain, since there's not really a whole lot of time-sensitive information awaiting me online, and I've spent my time reading, being grotesquely lazy (and, off and on, slightly ill), and, today, eating (well, drinking) brunch with multiple Swulii, Sara, and Jackie. (I'm not sure how the latter spells her name, however.)

Various new ideas for the next novel are cropping up from time to time, and I'm trying to keep track of them with pen and paper. Making notes makes me feel less like I'm failing my art, and indeed even makes me feel like I'm doing myself some good, since the last couple novels weren't exactly thought out before I began writing them.

Speaking of my previous books, I've come up with an excellent idea for Christmas. Everyone I know should purchase a copy of Axis Mundi Sum as their Christmas gift to someone else. Naturally, people who already own copies are excluded from receiving them, but it would be a nifty idea, and I'd be willing to sign any and all copies that came my way. Instead of shirts, socks, immediately-obsolete electronic gadgetry, or mass-market paperbacks, buy Axis Mundi Sum for your friends and loved ones. I'd sincerely appreciate it.

Lastly- and this applies to none of the people who read this regularly, as far as I know- tolerance for the sake of not looking like an asshole is asenine. Then again, so is being a dick just to be a dick.

Good night.

Avril Lavigne's version of Metallica's otherwise tepid "Fuel" makes me think of X. She doesn't sound identical to Exene, and the riffs aren't exactly Billy Zoom material, but for some reason I draw the comparison. Now that I think about it, I'd like to hear how X would interpret the song, though it would never happen.

Ah, Madamoiselle Lavigne. The creation of the skewed demiurge that is the pop music industry, but nonetheless highly appealing. Enjoying her work has to be one of my few pleasant dips into the shallow pool of popular culture. And for those of you who may frown on said dip, fuck off: even my metal-lovin' cretin ass can fall for gorgeous young pop stars from time to time. I await the day that I can ply Madamoiselle Lavigne with Lone Star, ferrets, and metal, then make out with her. Yep, that would be sweet.

On an unrelated note, my speakers are incredibly shitty, but sometimes they do exactly what they should do, i.e. crank out a wall of almost completely undifferentiated sound. Shit, I'd almost be willing to say that this High On Fire song sounds strangely similar to the way it did the last time I saw them live.

Time for more intoxicants.

Oh, man, I'm not gonna be worth a shit this Thanksgiving. It's 7:13 AM and I still haven't gone to bed. Good thing I have no obligations.

I finally heard back from the literary agency that's showed some interest in Critical Hits lately.

They offered me a contract.

I'm not going to accept it.

They want money up front, and as much of a newbie as I am when it comes to the writing game, I know that such a request is bullshit. I meant to do some research on these people last week, but never got around to it. Minutes after getting their email, I googled them, and the only good remarks I found were made by the authors they represent. Other aspiring writers had nothing to offer but scathing rebukes and condemnations. Nowhere on their site is there a list of books they've sold to publishers.

I could go on with my list of complaints, but it's not worth the effort. I learned early on that any agent that wants money from you before they even sell your work is a fucking thief, and that's all I need to know.

Back to the drawing board.

12:30 PM-2:30 PM: Wake up after going to bed at 7 AM.
2:30 PM-4:00 PM: Drink available liquids, smoke cigarettes, read email, talk online with diurnal people, groom as needed, watch X-Files or Buffy, dread work.
4:00 PM-2:30 AM: Watch dignity and sanity ooze from orifices. Mentally shake fist at co-workers and customers and everyone in between. Smoke and read at all possible opportunities. Spend 45-minute lunch break running home simply to avoid being at work.
2:30 AM-7 AM: Come home, drink all available beer in sight, fail to write, and do metric tons of nothing until 5:30 or so, when it is time to watch more X-Files/Buffy. Go to bed at dawn, possibly after walking around the neighborhood to purchase food items, and almost always wondering "what the fuck."

Repeat for four days in a row, follow up with an alcoholic blur ofa three-day weekend, and you'll be me, D.A. Smith. The D.A. stands for "Domo Arigato," as in "domo arigato for nothing, you miserable shitfuck world."

Nah. I'm kind of enjoying the bizarre blank space that is my life.

I'm trying to imagine a single situation that wouldn't be improved by the presence of a cold beer, and nothing is coming to mind. I wish I had a beer right now, but no, I've got three hours until I can buy more.

Because I have no beer, can't tell if I'm really in the mood to write, and don't feel like watching Buffy, I've engrossed myself in my new favorite thing on the internet. Read and enjoy.

I think I'm actually bored.

Slowly-typed line by slowly-typed line, guzzled beer by guzzled beer, murky thought by murky thought, what may be my new novel is appearing before me on this screen.

Dark Tranquillity's Damage Done is one of the finest albums I have purchased in the past two years. While not summertime fare, it is most definitely an album for days and nights like these. You should purchase it, as well as a copy of Axis Mundi Sum, which would make an excellent Christmas gift. When you buy it for your friends and loved ones, you should also include a copy of Len Bracken's Aphorisms Against Work, because everyone needs to read it.

Fuck work.

Slowly-typed line by slowly-typed line, guzzled beer by guzzled beer, murky thought by murky thought, what may be my new novel is appearing before me on this screen.

Dark Tranquillity's Damage Done is one of the finest albums I have purchased in the past two years. While not summertime fare, it is most definitely an album for days and nights like these. You should purchase it, as well as a copy of Axis Mundi Sum, which would make an excellent Christmas gift.

A week's worth of poor sleeping habits and unusual mental lassitude have not, as they may in a fictional creation, culminated in anything particularly meaningful, but only a persisent, low-level discombobulation and sense of being at odds (although not necessarily in a negative sense) with the world around me. This is acceptable, because I briefly worried that I was once again moving toward the anxiety that I've run into every now and then over the last couple of years. I think that I've avoided that gnawing fate for the time being, however.

You may notice that my last post has vanished. In the cold light of day-after sobriety, the piece has been judged and found unworthy of continued existence. But fear not; there will inevitably be another another late night infused with too much alcohol and a different proper noun to rant about.

Man, I'm not gonna do shit today except drink water and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Shit fire and save matches! Apparently I forgot that the literary agency that wanted to hear more about my work was the one I actually submitted a manuscript to. I got a standard "info received" email this evening after sending in the author intake form they wanted, and it mentioned going over my manuscript. "Hmm," sez I, "how are they going to review my manuscript when I... aw, fuck."

While this is a damned good start to the submission process, I'm terrified. Not so much because Critical Hits is a piece of shit, or because I'm afraid of rejection, but because whatever response I get will be a surprise. Had I remembered that this particular agency actually got my manuscript, I'd be prepared, but I'm not, and it's a creepy feeling. If the response is positive... fuckin' A.

I've puked up another tepid RPG.net column. Judging from some of the comments, I get the impression that at least one of the poor saps that reads the column likes Bush, but doesn't understand Hunter S. Thompson very much. Eh.

I'm playing the waiting game with a literary agency now, having sent back the stuff they requested about Critical Hits, and with Nuclear Blast Records, who really need to haul some ass and get the new Cathedral record out. I don't feel like waiting several months for it.

Last night, as I crawled into bed at 6 AM after falling asleep on the couch watching the X-Files, I had some really good ideas about my possible next novel, but I failed to write them down. Unsurprisingly, I can't remember them now.

I've discovered the pleasure that is watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, thanks to Jennifer. I foresee spending the next three months or so watching the entire run of the show, or possibly longer if I don't maintain my current viewing schedule. As hokey as certain elements of the first season have been, the show's really a lot better than I ever expected it to be, and I dare say I'm learning something from it. Not about vampires or the like, but from the basic narrative structure, which is something I've always had a poor grasp on.

I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of the wasteland that is my desk.

Despite running on five hours' uneasy sleep, my weekend is already off to a good start. Came home from work and stayed up until eight in the morning in the company of, at various times, my brother, Jen, and Eric. Slept, listened to Dr. Long Ghost push a jingling ball of a ferret toy around the house, got up, talked to people online and via phone, and am currently working on response to literary agent, while listening to the almighty Thin Lizzy. Weather is perfect, beer is flowing, cigarettes are smoldering. Life is good.

Now that the election is over and I've run the gamut of mental and emotional responses (as my last few posts show), it feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. There's no more doubt about the fate of the nation- it's screwed- so I reckon I can get back to concentrating on the things I want to concentrate on.

Sorry for the bitching and moaning yesterday (well, this morning), but until American stupidity provokes me again, I'll lay off.

I've posted this to the commentary (AKA "blog") area on MySpace, but I feel the need to post it here. It's not exactly enlightening, but it sheds some illumination on things for those who don't really know me. (I suspect there is exactly one of you that fits this category.)

As noted:

---

As lonely as they were at times, I yearn for the simple moments that comprised the weekends of my first year at SHSU. I miss getting a ride home on Friday nights from my pops, shooting the shit, drinking RC, eating grocery store pizza, going to Half Price Books, watching the X-Files, hearing the AC thrum, sleeping on the couch or in the computer room. I miss that house, and in my mind, it has been, and will be, the setting of many a story. I dare say that I'd live there again, except that I know it wouldn't be the same. It's not 1997-2001 anymore, my brother and father no longer live there, and, as oddly attached to the suburbs as I am, I know I could never do the place the justice it deserves, locus of good memories that it is.

I still drive by it almost every time I visit Spring, though. While Spring is a cancerous place these days, nothing can ruin the places of my youth, save their complete destruction.

Viva Spring 1991-1994, and, more intermittently, 1997-2001. If it wasn't for Bridgestone and Bridgestone West, I would not be who I am.

Before I break down, I'm going to go watch the X-Files.

----

Sometimes I miss being twelve, and other times I miss being eighteen or nineteen. Does everyone feel this way? I really think that I would derive considerable pleasure from once again spending weekends screwing around on a dial-up connection, reading, drinking coffee, and watching cable TV, all in the company of various family members, especially in the house at 19713 Westbridge.

If I ever get rich, I think I'll buy that house, and several other houses in the area.

I need to get out of this room and watch the X-Files. The urge to collapse in a heap of melancholy is overwhelming.

I'm going to wait until the real results, not those posited by the media, are in, before I make any statements about this fucking election.

I feel no shame now for not having voted anymore.

As I, quoting Len Bracken, have said before, Nobody wins in 2004. Fuck this shit and the ignorance than fuels it. To hell with oil- ignorance is the fossil fuel this world relies on, and will continue to rely on until aliens turn us into slaves or we murder the beautiful planet God gave us.

And no, you miserable cunts, I wouldn't be happy if Kerry ended up winning, but it would be nice to have a bandage to cover the hemorrage that is America over the past four years.

FUCK. On one hand, mankind deserves better, but on the other, I have yet to see it do anything en masse to prove itself.

This is addressed to myself and God, and is an expression of not only politics (which, actually, play an incredibly minimal part, but have brought me to this point on this night), but so many frustrations and questions that have plagued me for years. You all can hear it, for the sake of understanding me a little better.

WHY? WHY? WHY IS HUMANITY SO SELF-DEFEATING? WHY DOES THE SEARCH FOR MEANING REQUIRE SUCH MISERY?

Damn, I want to just break down and weep. Humanity has done so many amazing things, only to drown them in blood and piss and ignorance. The only thing I can do, as meaningless as it may be, is to keep creating myself, pouring out what I can to add to the stream of meaningfulness.

I realize that I'm in no way coherent, thanks to many beers, but fuck it. The sentiment is there.

Philosophy can be cold comfort, but I'll really find out when I go to bed soon.

Allow me to correct myself. Today the hammer comes down on not only the United States, but the entire world. All six billion of us, give or take a few, will feel the repercussions. The winner of the election merely determines how quickly and resoundingly the hammer will strike the anvil.

I'm no fan of the eschaton, and I don't know how imminent it is, but it's hard to convince myself it's not inevitable.

The hammer comes down on the United States today. I'm terrified to see what kind of horrible fate my countrymen will inflict upon themselves.

I've once again spent a weekend doing little of tangible value. Saw Natalie on Friday, which was fun, and went to Huntsville later that evening, which was also worthwhile. Did virtually nothing Saturday except drink and watch the X-Files, having recovered my collection of tapes from Darcy in Huntsville. Yesterday I watched Donnie Darko, which was incredible and disturbing, and made notes on what may be my next novel.

I reckon the big news around here is that I heard back from one of the literary agencies I fired a query letter off to. They haven't asked for more than additional information about myself and my novel, but it's the brightest prospect I've had so far. I may get lucky and get far enough to send them my manuscript, but I'm not holding my breath. It does make me a bit more confident about my work, however.

I really don't want to go to work.