Zeros and Ones

Shame on us. Doomed from the start. God have mercy on our dirty little hearts.
Shame on us. For all we've ever done. And all we ever were. Just zeros and ones.

So ends two weeks of porn-art on Misanthropy Central. I'll miss the excuse to sneak flesh onto this blog, but it is a slippery slope toward becoming another Stile Project. (I admire what Biderman's doing, but it ain't my ambition.)

Technically, the above picture doesn't even fit with the series, as the source image isn't pornographic. And honestly, I'll probably keep revisiting the dark, crypto-erotic imagery here, when I feel like it. Keeps things interesting. Gives me a reason to dick around with Photoshop. Gives me something to look at as I reload my own blog 100 times in a day.

Can't express how much I wanted to go out tonight. Do something. Get bombed. Decimate the city. The weather's fucking incredible this weekend. The kind of weather that makes you feel like an asshole if you're NOT out there, climbing lamp posts, throwing monkey scat.

And yet... I've got writing to do.

Yeah, I know, I'm always going to have writing. I've always had writing. It's never going to be completely finished. But this one script is so important, I've gotta get it done, I've gotta get it done well, and it's really best if I get it done soon.

And I am close. That might be more of a motivating mantra for me than a matter of fact, but I can see the end. Like a series of chess moves. The juvenile machinations of a genre script, perhaps, but I don't have to rediscover fire.

When I finish this thing, when I get this thing properly cracked, I am going to get demolished. I may have to go on a demolition tour.

Check out "Anatomy of a Dry Spell"... hits a bit TOO close to home, for my money...