SHOW ME YOUR TWAT!!!

So i am on twitter now.  Ugh, something new to keep up with.  I am not really serious about it.  I just feel like i don’t wanna miss out on something, i guess.  Haha, i'm such a loser!  Honestly, i don’t see what the big deal about it is.  Or is that just cuz i have a smart phone, and easy access to FB & Myspace?  I guess that’s the deal, right?  If you can’t easily access those two, to let your friends know what you are doing, you can just tweet by a simple text.  For me, i can just update my status easily on FB or MS via my Blackberry. Therefore, i'll probably not be using it that much.

Only a couple people are following me.  I am following mostly news sites:  Al Jazeera, CNN, NPR and the Dodgers.  I could care less what every celeb is doing.  I don’t understand that obsession.  I’m not sure why you want people to know what you’re doing all the time though.  Hmmm, what shall i tweet…?

I’m waking up.

I’m  in my cubicle at work, looking at porn.

I’m taking a dump.

I’m skimming the books and setting up a swiss account.

I’m  picking my nose.

I’m eating at Mc Donald’s.

I’m throwing up what I just ate.

I’m at the club.

me druunk as fcuk!!!

Wher my kees go?

Car in dich, anyone can picks me up?

If you wanna really see what i just twat on twitter i’m _rytweet.  That’s right, i said twat, you cunt, whaderya gonna do about it?!  Sometimes i like to make weak verbs strong, just for the hell of it.  Observe:

Tweet, twat, twit:  I tweet now.  I twat yesterday.  I had twit that already.

Shave, shove, shaven:  I shave regularly.  I shove this morning.  I had shaven already.

Wave, wove, woven:  I wave.  I wove to you earlier.  I had woven to you when you turned around.

Well, you get the idea.  Yeah, I’m a big fucking dork, whatever.  It’s not breaking news.  Get over it.

HOME SWEET HOME

Someone recently asked me in which part of Los Angeles i live, despite my screen name being “ry of Venice.”  Ok, ok, so maybe he wasn’t sure if i was originally from there and then moved or what.  I restrained the asshole in me and replied Venice.

Yes, i live in Venice, Los Angeles, California, United States of America.

I am from Venice:

Where graffiti meets the sand,

Where paved roads turn to watery canals,

Where streets are to be walked on and courts to be driven on,

Where Baywatch guards the beach and a ballerina clown guards Rose & Main,

Where Arnold trained and Gehry drew,

Where Jim Morrison played and Harry Perry still does,

Where new art homes and lofts mingle with old craftsman bungalows,

Where ducks float on the pond and gulls on the sea air,

Where the largest employer works behind giant binoculars,

Where tattoo parlors and surf shops are tucked under the colonnades of Main and Winward,

Where residents annually stroll though their neighbors' houses to admire their art collections,

Where residents will pay to stroll through their neighbors' property to admire their gardens,

Where drum circles gather and sage burns,

Where sword swallowers and street comics entertain,

Venice, Coney Island of the Pacific, Dogtown,

Land of the Beats and the Hips, Z-Boys and the Crips and tourists on trips.

Venice.

Ryan J. Nelson ©2009

AD RIFT: FIS HINT HE SEA

Adrift.  Solitary i sail.  Away from what failed.  On and on.

Ahead.  Into the abyss.  Behind are days i miss.  Uneasy.

Ages.  A while since sublime.  But a whale of a good time.  Hunting.

Drowning.  In grounders of grog.  To cut through the fog.  Aiding.

Slimy.  Under starry skies.  Waves of temporary highs.  Fishing.

Free.  Didn’t put up a fight.  But just for one night.  Thrown back.

Looking.  But not for keeps.  And the sea, she weeps.  Nightly.

Floating.  Been adrift so long.  Amidst a colorful throng .  All alone.

Avast.  Anchors to weigh?  And start a new day?  Am i ready?

Unsure.  Don’t know how i feel.  Lost without a needle.  Directionless.

Drifting.   Now to sail on.  Best things have gone.  Once again.

Hopeless.  Forget the SOS.  This one’s a mess.  Forlorn.

Repeat.  Yet another night.  And no land in sight.  Adrift.

Ryan J. Nelson ©2009