Clutch the wire fence until your fingers bleed

I had a premonition today. Not the usual premonition of evil, but a thought of a kinder, gentler, more aggressively maanipulative me. Are those characteristics contradictory? Maybe. I plan to begin a campaign of self-promotion with the goal of becoming a "somebody." My internal insecurity with my own being has led me choosing this path. Oh, you smug jerk, you're wondering, "How are you gonna do that Fiestawizard?" Easy, with a little help from you and an intense campaign of obtainting a part in the newest action flick. And don't tell me (as a pathetic attempt to ruin my plan) that they don't make the motion pictures anymore. Anyway, my idea is to, you know, be one of those aspiring Hollywood types. Really my main interest would be in giving other aspiring assholes a little taste of bloody chrome. Not by hitting them with my car of course, because there's no chrome on the new vehicles these days. I want to set up some sort of scam. For example, have a casting call or have a red-carpet type event. The droves of potential superstars would walk right into my trap no problem where they would be payed a small fee for performing unheard of sexual behavior in front of a cassette tape recorder (top quality mind you). Oh, like that hasn't been done before. I know, and that's why people in Hollywood are on to that and you can no longer get away with fake events like that. So, we're now finding that the plan is underdeveloped. and basically I'm now realizing that I just want to create a piece of satire that captures the essence of being an absolute aspiring anything... walking through a life in which every move is calculated to produce the final outcome: AIDS and a kid with one eye. And so, that's what I must give them. Oh yeah, and I need you to pretend your my agent, press person, photographer, etc.

Oh yeah, and I picked up the newest copy of the homeless paper today. It's pretty good and the guy that gave it to me makes his writing premiere in it. He wrote an article about fixing your bike and the possibility of purple feces. Really. At the end of the article he says you can email him or give him your phone number. Last time I left a transient my number I ended up with several calls from "mom and dad Filbertson" and several calls from a local cat doctor. Okay I guess, better than the calls from Canada.

That reality show/drama (which one?) on MTV really sucks and I'm going to fork my eyes out now.