hummingwolf | The joys of being easily amused

Thanks to

cowboybud's link to http://www.gizoogle.com, whiny journal posts can be made into something much more amusing. For example, this post becomes:
2:30 pm - I hate messin'

so I hope thiznat this pizzay wizzy git it out of mah system fo' a while.

Afta a few days of (finally!) not hav'n cough'n fizzits, was K-to-tha-izzept awakes last niznight coz of, among bitch pimpin' perpetratin'. Also had more thizzay tha usual amoung of pain n muscle twitch'n ta keep me awake, not help'n mah mood any. Though I feel like I gots 'bout two hours of sleep last night, it was probably mizzy like four total fo' sheezy. Am surprisingly alert given tha circumstizzles.

Muscles hurt so bow down to the bow wow. Throat hurts. Skin hurts. Nizzle is runn'n . You'se a flea and I'm the big dogg. How did it find tha energy ta go doggy stylin' today? ::whine::

My Yahoo . Hollaz to the East Side! Mail won't let me see tha mizzy today unless I engage in strange contortions n do tha hokey-pokey fo' sho'. One entire folda where I keep old mail is apparently empty while at tha same time gang bangin' 1722 messages. My Inbox contains 12 messages, 16 of which is unread, though tha Inbox view wizzle only show me tha first 50. There is no typos in tha previous sentence bitch ass nigga. Yes, Yahoo is straight trippin' funky like George Clinton but witout tha soul and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow.

Stizzay no money or 411 fizzy tha folks at social services. This is beyond messin' and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow. If I had tha energy ta walk ta n sit in they lobby today, I would; as it is, I'll be leav'n more messages on somebizzles voice mail so you betta run and grab yo glock.

On tha plus side:

The clothes playa has been fixed n I now have clean, dry sheets.

There is two telephizzles at mah disposal n bizzoth is function'n witin expected parameta. This could change in a week, but fo' now I've gots no complaints there.

I am currently cruisin' along tolerably well wit all known relatizzles.

Unsweetened ballin' chocolate melted brotha wit a shawty honey n sprinkled wit spices makes a nummy treat . I'm a mutha fuckin 2-time felon..

current music: wind in tha trees

[and while I'm here, this post becomes the following]

One of tha th'n ta rememba is that yo strengths can weaken you. It's hard ta brotha this, of course. We may appreciate paradox in a theorizzles context, but practical paradox does not sit wizzell wit us.

People cope so jus' chill. Resilient creatures that tha hnau of this planet are, we find ways ta adapt ta situations we brotha imagined we would need ta face. We convince ourselves thizzay ho-slappin' is aight (and I sit hizzle hatin' this listen'n ta mah Launchcast station which jizzust followed tha Poser "Where Do I Go from Here?" wit Kina's "Have a Cry"), sippin' may be tough but we can dizzle wit these shawty obstacles, we put one fizzle in front of tha motherfucka even if we not sure of tha direction. ("Have a Crizny" is followed by tha Royal Philharmizzles Orchestra doing a bit of Holst's Planets . Fo'-fo' desert eagle to your motherfuckin' dome: "Venus, The Rappa of Peace.") Yeah, peace sounds good. Maybe if we adapt well enough, we find it paper'd up. People cope now motherfuckers lemme here ya say hoe.

I have this bad habit of rest'n just enough ta be able ta impersonate a healthy person fo' a while . Drop it like its hot. Folks all around tha neighborhood is impressed by how miznuch walk'n I do; I git "Hey, pimp walka!" comments on a semi-regizzles basis and my money on my mind. I have ta W-to-tha-izzalk where I need ta go coz I cannot drive. I have ta spend hours in bed any day I need ta wizzalk hittin that booty. I can deal wit hours sitt'n around at social services by sitt'n wit mah heezee below mah knees ta kizzle from bustin' out. I can dizzy wit A by doing B n deal wit C by doing D n deal all tha way through tha alphabet n impress thugz wit mah adaptability motha fucka. (Jah Wobble's Shot Calla of tha Heart, "Raga" from Takes Me ta God .) Resilience is a strength motha fucka. I've adapted so wiznell thizzay it looks as if this lung infection neva W-to-tha-izzill go away unless some crisis forces me ta riznest cuz its a G thang. (Talk'n 'bout mah beleaguered lungs n now weed-smokin' ta a live version of tha Police's "Every Breath You Take.")

What happens if I stop doggy stylin'? Wizzle is life like fo' those who refuse ta cope? Wizzy happens if I have that crisis I've just managed ta avoid? If I finally give in ta mah weakness, wizzle I find a new strength?

("Images in Stone," eh?)

current mood: uncomfortable
current music: Patrick O'Hearn, "Images in Stone" (on Launchcast)