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[27 Sep 2005|02:04am]
His back was slightly bent from where he always stayed over the table, leaning, examing. It could have been from the fumes, but those didn't always linger. He kept his viles on the back corner, stacked above the burner and caffeine pills. He liked things to be perfect when he wasn't cooking. His ocd had kicked ina few years before... it started when his arms began to blister, oozing pus along the tiny hairs on his arm. Fortunately, unlike his protege's he'd managed to get by with just one lost tooth, and fortunately it was on the bottom corner of his mouth. That's why he'd grown out his wiry auburn mustache, to distract wandering glances from his mouth. It's not that he was ashamed for what he did, he just knew he wasn't symmetrical anymore.

All around the room behind him lay glass cases of model trains. When he wasn't working, it was how he kept his sanity, hunched over his desk, meticulously painting each tiny aluminum hull to exact scale. Or from what he managed to remember. The main importance of the tiny models is what they held, the tiny white rocks packed tightly inside the little rectangular sliding doors.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and locked the lawnmower back into the shed. His wife smiled at him through the window, and sipped her glass of tea while walking around on the phone. The backyard was bordered by large oak trees, but otherwise left completely open. Besides the shed the only real tangible things in the backyard were his 7 year old son's swingset and treehouse. They were built not really as a father-son team but more a distraction to keep the lanky kid's distraction. He'd wandered into the room before, tried to play with the pricelss model trains and science kit that shared the space. That was a grown-ups room full of toys, not for him.

He could hear the cartoons blaring from the upstairs television as soon as he walked in. He knew it was probably so the conversation couldn't be heard by curious ears upstairs. What it was about... it didn't really matter. they had complete trust in one another. afterall, she had stayed out of the business affairs through the entire marriage and never once became unattracted to him from his physical state. it was pure love. The only one in the house she really loved more than her faithful, aging husband was her son. the two adults knew the house wouldn't have a father figure too much longer, that they were almost to their last hand.

The sound increased slightly as he crept up the stairs, trudging to the television. he muted it, his son wasn't playing there anymore anyway. the bedroom door was shut. he opened it, but no one was inside. he turned around to look in the work room, and saw a small white sneaker next to the desk leg.

the sight of the tipped model train on the table with open doors was the first clue. it lay there, with chipped paint, halfway full of the small white pills that called the boxcar home. He walked closer to the desk. the boy was lying on his back, open lips covered in foam. nose bleeding. his hands and cheeks were covered in white powder and his bright blue eyes stared empty at the door.

The man made no sign of emotion as he reached towards the train and emptied the other half of its contents into his cupped hand. He threw back his head and dropped them in. out the door {carefully closing it behind him}. down the stairs {quietly; his wife was in the living room}. he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the freezer and put the cool glass neck to his mouth.
(3) COMMENT

[07 Sep 2005|01:41am]
it's really my fault for letting myself become so manipulated by people that convince me i can have at least an iota of trust in them. if not as anything unique, then at least as friends. but once you lead me on or lie to me, it won't ever come back. i have the misfortune of being a caring, genuine person and it seems that that characteristic always has a way of biting me in the ass.








the smell of coffee filtered through the cigarette smoke as i lifted the coffee mug to my lips. i'd eaten a quarter of the waffle and had let the rest absorb the stale, runny maple syrup i'd enveloped it. she was fidgety.. never really stared in one place for too long. well, that's what i thought i saw out of the corner of my eye. i knew from the moment we'd met that i'd found someone i could relate to, someone i could eventually talk to and trust one hundred percent. we'd hung out a few times, afterall. she knew i was attracted to her and i hoped she was attracted to me. and despite what my friends said, what my gut feeling was... i let myself fall for her. and it was that one fucking mistake that ruined it all. she'd been doing coke with me all night, even after I stopped. i mean, we had at least a half gram between us. but it was her being unable to stop that really bothered me. i couldn't look her in the eye. i felt so fucking sorry for this one beautiful, intelligent girl because she used this shit as a crutch and not to hone her skills as a socialite.

but i didnt let it get to me.

i knew when she'd said she loved someone else what she meant. she loved two people, and tried to use me to get over them. but it didnt work for her like she thought it would. in the meantime, a seemingly tight bond was desecrated over because she decided to use a friend to get over someone else. i fell hard for her. too hard to go back immediately, anyways. i'm not hurt by it, and i shouldnt be this pissed. but i guess you can't control every emotion all the time. it sucks that a friendship was ruined over this. it sucks that i was used to get back at someone... to get over someone... just used. it's weird how dropping your guard can lead to fucked up situations. and now i know, no girl is worth risking anything of value.



and i value time the most.
(7) COMMENT

[29 Jul 2005|12:50am]
i half-smoked a cigarette on the drive home tonight, watched each streetlight turn off before my car could be illuminated.

the windows were down, and there was lightning all around me. iggy pop played in the speakers and all i could think of was how happy she's made me.





emotions are some of the most intriguing aspect of human existence... poking and prodding at someone only to find their breaking point has become a hobby with people i start to not like.



and i did it again tonight, got a rise out of someone not because i was pissed, but because they deserve to be hurt.





what does that make me?
(4) COMMENT

[18 Jul 2005|02:28am]
there are way too many people i think i should never have met.. but then again a couple have spawned awesome friendships with their friends. things are complicated, and quickly becoming disasterous. i think isolation is the best form of defense in situations like this, and burning bridges seems like the best solution.
(2) COMMENT

[18 Jul 2005|01:15am]
You spurn my natural emotions
You make me feel like dirt
And I'm hurt
And if I start a commotion
I run the risk of losing you
And that's worse

Ever fallen in love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
You shouldn't've fallen in love with

I can't see much of a future
Unless we find out what's to blame
What a shame
And we won't be together much longer
Unless we realize that we are the same

Ever fallen in love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
You shouldn't've fallen in love with

You disturb my natural emotions
You make me feel like dirt
And I'm hurt
And if I start a commotion
I'll only end up losing you
And that's worse

Ever fallen in love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
You shouldn't've fallen in love with

Ever fallen in love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
Ever fallen in love
In love with someone
You shouldn't've fallen in love with
Fallen in love with
Ever fallen in love with someone
You shouldn't've fallen in love with







fucking punk.
(1) COMMENT

[02 Jul 2005|02:26am]
i've found no solace in these people's homes. the floral wallpaper, their linoleum floors, outdated furniture. it makes me realize that nothing really is permanent anymore. when i wake up tomorrow there won't be a single thing that was the same as before i closed my eyes. paint will have faded slightly, people will have died, lived, loved, and cried. the air is a little dirtier and the weather won't be quite as good as i tend to make it in retrospect.

retrospect...

i hate looking back because it only makes me want to look forward and predict where i'll be, who i'll be... and the people that will have come and gone in my life. I'm desperate for some substance to this life, some mark that won't eventually wash away with the rain, some factual evidence that won't be distorted into history books. you never really do remember exact details when the thoughts push everything out, glaze it with some fog that either i brought on or the alcohol and drugs took the liberty to do for me.

i like poisoning my body... i like being a young adult with no time at all but always willing to kill it anyway.

when i traced my finger along the tiled floor i realized how close i had come. my nose bled far too thick and far too long to haplessly shrug away like it was insignificant. it's really the significance that matters, not who people are or what they do. it's how they make things "better". but usually better isnt always as good as people tend to believe. satisfaction is a greedy force, an ideology that is always hungry but never full. we all want more. we all want more money and less work. we all want beautiful partners and meaningful relationships. but we also want their friends and envy what their friends have. we detest newlyweds because of their affection but at heart we're telling ourselves that in 6 more years alimony will replace love. and the world will continue. animals will still hunt, procreate, sleep, dwell... and people will do the same in their own ways. we're always searching for something to make of ourselves, something to create, something to satisfy us and convince us that we have fully lived out our lives and that we can finally embrace death because we've maxed out the credit we've been given.


but it won't ever fucking happen. our grandparents die. our parents are next. then it's us. slowly fdorced, kicking and screaming against our will into the inevitable exclamation point that is death. or maybe it's an elipses? i don't know how to define who i am anymore, i can only go back and look through photo albums and year books and addresses and realize who i was, and only speculate on who i will be. when i wake up, i wont be the same person, and neither will anyone else. i can only hope that i will change at the same pace and direction as those i respect and admire most, as those i hold closest to my heart. i've realized that i can love anyone that sparks some interest or intrigues me, but it's not a lasting force and it will die out eventually.

my only hope is that my body dies first.
(4) COMMENT

[22 Jun 2005|10:14pm]
I breathed the night air in through my cigarette, slowly burning at the filter. I flicked it into the road and lit another. Things shouldn’t be so hard. The full moon illuminated everything that wasn’t already tarnished from the city lights 30 miles away. Sometimes I could sneak a glimpse of a star trying desperately to emerge through the corona that engulfed most of them.

She had just walked inside, told me she wasn’t the right girl for me. It had to have been the fourth time this week, but I had no solutions for her. We rarely talked anyway, and she had been bragging to her friends about how inconceivably good the sex was to avoid all questions about our relationship.

I stopped caring what she thought about me the third time I cheated on her. Slowly I had developed the tenacity to fuck every one of her friends. They all wanted it… they wanted to substantiate the rumors.

The radio wasn’t helping. Blaring outrageously absurd ads about furniture places, car dealerships, fast food restaurants all intermingled to form some semblance of white noise, a static so beautifully caustic that I turned it up just to drown out everything else in my head.

Things weren’t right anymore.
(2) COMMENT

[22 Jun 2005|09:42pm]
My biggest fear is blending in, becoming an incoherent automaton, oblivious to the sinking value of blood and increased interest in property worth. I looked outside today, from the second story window of our suburban house and found every other seemingly identical house had at least one S.U.V. in the driveway. These people are all trying too hard to become each other, to meld so well into each other that this neighborhood… this county… this state… this country… it’s all becoming one big commune. We have the world trade organization. Global policies. Sanctions. We’re fighting communism only because it’s harder to embezzle money from your employer when your neighbors know where you are at all time. We’re creating something “more” for ourselves, keeping up with the Jones’. They get a new dog, we get two. They get a new car, we get a car and a jet ski. They send their kids off to state universities, we throw money to the wind and hope it lands on the desk of a chancellor of one of those ivy league schools… the name brands that only celebrities and legacies really adhere to.

I’m not gonna live the American dream. I am going to be poor. I am going to be desperate. I won’t stay at resorts and hope that senior citizens still get discounts every Tuesday. I’m not going to hope my kids visit me at the retirement center, I’m not going to rely on social security and be forced into early retirement. I won’t grow up, turn away from the slow but study decline of this politically correct ultra conservative nation I’ve been born to as 99% of the world grows up around me. I refuse to place emphasis on death, saving so I can have something to leave my kids. I won’t ever dye my graying hair or use anti-wrinkle cream. I won’t pass on, I will die. I don’t even want a grave marker... not even a grave.

For some reason growing up everyone I trusted led me to believe I was going to be something different, that I would somehow help to change the world and create something better for myself. That’s what they were told. In times like these, intelligence has become irrelevant unless it’s used to figure out various ways to cut costs while still allowing room for personal bonuses and perks and benefits. Life really is who you know, after all. Sex money power. I don’t really know which has the most emphasis but I do know they’re all related and determine so fucking much about someone’s place in society.

I’ve watched my little brothers playing before and had nothing to think about except the fucked up things that will happen to them within the next decade. And somewhere, they will lost their innocence. They’ll adopt the same principles of success that our teachers in our public schools went to college to become. I never had a teacher recommend teaching as a source of employment. I’ve never had a teacher that didn’t reflect some iota of bitterness in their gaze, encouraging students to become the very best they can be with what little resources they have. I’ve lost my faith in this society. I’ve lost my faith in a lot of things.






i need to write more... things are a lot more tolerable when my head's in the clouds.
(4) COMMENT

[26 May 2005|02:01pm]
if you think you know me, for even a half second, step back, gaze at the sky and watch for the world to collapse on you.




when it happens, in that breath of ecstacy and lust for the oblivion, you've come close.























but you still don't know me.
(10) COMMENT

[25 May 2005|11:36am]
This self analysis has started to get the better of me. I’ve filled my world with conspiracy theories and wild images, hoping only for the sweetest of futures. I had this dream once that I’d be someone bigger than others, someone who would die and leave a legend. But, none of that really matters now. Not when we have everyone else to look up to us. We have everyone in the palm of our hands, eagerly leaning forward to catch a few more words, enthusiastic only because we remind them what it’s like to feel. It’s hard to hate the world when you’ve been given everything, so when they listen to our harrowing tale they somehow associate themselves with the common man, giving them stories to share at dinner parties and social gatherings. We existed only to help their suburban pasts crumble from memory, replaced with borrowed images from the days we thought life had nothing substantial to offer.

They traded us candy bars for stories.

We weaved our way through the trees, minding the dense greenery and side-stepping the infrequent creature that happened to meander by, eyeing us solely out of curiosity. After all, this was their home.

We found a shoebox, as they waited behind us. Filled it with everything that reminded us of him; beer cans, a pipe, his wallet, pictures, notes, and other trinkets that were too sentimental too burn and unimportant enough to our well-being to haplessly discard. I mean, we were mature enough to realize we’d probably forgive him one day. He was half our life force, nevertheless.

We found the spot, designated by the grove of yellow and white wildflowers and the big bent tree I’d carved my initials into. It was my escape. We could have buried it anywhere, but this spot seemed the most appropriate. I knew I’d never need to venture out there again. We had no one left to escape. I rarely traversed these woods anymore, spending my days reading and drinking… the only concrete trait I inherited from him.

I don’t really know what made us decide it was the right time to resurrect what was left of him, the only accurate reminder that hadn’t decomposed. I forgot what he looked like, and I liked it better that way. It’s weird how the memory works. I can recall his suit perfectly, the black pinstripe jacket covering his broad shoulders. The grey and red striped tie, donated from a thrift store the day before. The lapel pin that was obviously purchased for this special occasion, agreed upon by a few elderly church ladies. If that’s how they wanted people to remember him, then I wasn’t going to stop them. I knew him differently than anyone else, anyways.

I kept checking over my shoulder to see if she would show up. I don’t know who I hated worse between the two of them; angry at him for the excessive drinking and the way he’d hit us no matter what went wrong or whose fault it was. I think I hated her the most, but I loved the feeling I got when I thought about her. The mix of hate and anger and bitterness so thick I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and feel it choking me so subtle in the back of my throat. It felt right to hold everything against them. She could have taken us with her, but chose not to. She wanted to rid herself of his memory more than anyone else and we were the two most obvious reminders, following her around like his ghost. I know she saw his eyes in mine, and I know she held it against me.

We were too young to know what to do with ourselves. People would whisper to each other and glance over, nonchalantly shake their heads or feign sympathy. No one really cared. People brought themselves close enough to give us the impression they’d be there for us, while simultaneously distancing themselves so they wouldn’t be chosen to take care of us.

I hated the way the social worker smelled. She reeked of cheap perfume and her excessive makeup covered up any trace of what she really looked like. Her blonde hair was starting to lose its luster from her brown roots. They had given us 3 hours to pack whatever we had left. Simulated a nurturing look, then glanced at her partner and rolled her eyes. She might miss lunch on account of us.

We were confused about everything, we didn’t know where we were going but we were promised a pool and a jungle gym and a community video game system. They skirted every question as to our parent’s whereabouts. Last time I had seen him he’d been in the deepest alcohol-induced sleep of his life. In that moth-tarnished suit. Last time I saw her she was holding a kitchen knife and backing out the front door, cheeks streaked with black lines and her hair matted to the side of her face.

I opened the old cedar trunk in the one bedroom the old house held. Took out everything I owned. Two t-shirts, a brown bear missing an eye, an old pinewood derby car, and a few honor roll certificates later I was packed. I hated that school, the way they always picked on me, the way the girls looked at me and giggled, how no one ever picked me for kickball, deciding rather to make me invisible.

I wished I was invisible. I could see the red business suit out of the corner of my eye, the bright flash of red reflected on the hinges. I could hear her white heels tapping on the linoleum. I wanted her to leave. I wanted to burn the place down. I wanted to experience the whole fucking place fall apart around me, feel my feet start to go as I melded into the ash that was once the darkest part of my life.

But good little boys don’t play with matches.
(3) COMMENT

[24 May 2005|10:54pm]
i give up.
(6) COMMENT

[24 May 2005|02:49pm]
we started the day off early, driving through the maze of canyons that make up this desolate state. the sun shone directly overhead, and everything looked so sterile. I rode shotgun, puffing away at a joint i haplessly rolled to pass the time. The seat was too familiar. the curves of the dashboard. The white noise in between ham radio stations. And everything outside was dead. it aggravated me, the way the plants all looked the same, the way the rocks jutted out from the horizon, ripping the sun in half. it was all orange.

I awoke to a sputtering neon sign, declaring to the few inhabitants that managed to build themselves homestead on this barren land that they could still indeed get key lime pie for a buck twenty-five a slice. 24 hours a day.

It was my turn to drive. i drove with the windows down. the air whistled by, sometimes forcing its way through my sweaty hair. it blew my bangs out of my eyes, at least. inside the glove compartment we had a few grams of coke; something we brought along to help enjoy the drive a little more. I cut a line on the arm rest and took my foot off the accelerator. Steadied the wheel. Inhaled. I slammed my foot on the pedal, felt the coke rushing through me. I could hear my heart beat, I could count every drop of sweat on my brow.

We didnt even know where we were going. The trip had started out as just that, a trip. We’d been on a combination of LSD, Mescaline, coke, and pot for at least 5 days. Sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store, we made the decision to leave. And so we drove. Out of town. Out of the county. Out of the state. We just went west, always towards the setting sun.

We tripped peyote under a canyon. The rocks were red and sculpted, still smooth from the millions of years of water that shaped them. I’d never felt so natural. I vomited a few times, watched my vision slowly distort. The rocks began to circle around me. They told me the stories of the people that once called the place home. They told me about wars and death and victory and change. And they hated it just as much as I did.

No one lives here anymore.
(4) COMMENT

[17 Mar 2005|01:52am]
there's this group of people at my school, a tight group of fashion seekers and music critics that all hang out together... what's weird is that i used to hang out around them at some points, until i got bored with their caddy gossip and comments on everyone but themselves. they are infallible. these people spend too much money on used clothing, scour the internet too long for bands no one has heard of, and when they are together they talk trash.

the trash talk is nothing new; i have been around it all before, and it never ceases to surprise me how much these people are willing to gossip and talk about their friends. laughing behind their backs, intensifying rumors, etc. these kids are the most elitist people i think i have ever met, disloyal and unafraid to stab a fellow scene member in the back if it means it's to their advantage.

they all sleep with the same people. they all throw the same parties. in this group, everyone knows every intimate detail about everyone else. in this group, they wont hesitate to poke fun at someone's attire, at their pronunciation, at their habits, their activities, hobbies, etc. If it isnt with them, then it is something to be mocked.

recently i heard these kids saying rumors about me... small bullshit lies about different things... but it's weird, because i've distanced myself from them. i dont like them, and i htink that maybe they assume i do. it's weird, how much shit talking these people do, when they really don't have anything to talk about. they're untalented, lifeless, generally unnattractive people who happened to get into a good school and escape their hick towns. then they found more people, as plastic as they are.

i dont know why i wrote that... maybe it's just because it's funny how absurdly immature these kids are. i mean sure, they're intelligent, but these days being smart isn't too hard. sure they read their underground unpopular theorists and authors, listen to their underground off-tempo obscure music, and fuck each other's boyfriends and girlfriends. it's like a fucking mtv television show, only these kids are too cool for mtv.

what a bunch of fucking losers. it's crazy how some people think mocking is funny, when most people find it EXTREMELY immature.

{see friends page, maybe you'll get it}
oh, and fuck you!
(23) COMMENT

[14 Mar 2005|09:55pm]
The torrent of words swept in and cleansed all of our consciences clean. We'd been purged of the morality they'd forced into our heads. Logic reigns now.

Outside the bell struck 13 times, the sun began to sink into the hills and corpses littered the street. The world was burning beneath us, and the buildings began to quake. Nothing will ever be as intense as the imagery they seared into our eyelids, the faces blurring together, the screams becoming a cacophony of heartbreak, lust, death, laughter, pain, suffering, and pride. No, the wind refused to blow the flags all raised half mast. nothing seemed relevant as the earth floated away. the floor spun, the ceiling rose and a chorus of sobs rang in to meet the blood red moon. There's no surviving this chaos. there's no escaping the invalids who we spit on and kicked at on the sidewalk. their disease belongs to us, and we've never realized it.

one more night and we'd see the day we'd expected since before a single breath came from the heavens. There's a shortage of roseries, bibles, and canned food. and the lines of people... the riots... we'd kill each other before anything else was able to.

tomorrow i wont wake up to see the sun searing through the ash. tomorrow i wont wake up to the light of day. tomorrow i wont take a breath. i wont realize my calling. i wont translate a single dream. pockets empty, soul empty, chest empty.... the things i've seen with these eyes will never leak out. the things i've felt with these fingertips have already eroded away.

im falling








































apart.
(4) COMMENT

[13 Mar 2005|03:43am]
i'd like to take this opportunity to say FUCK ALL OF YOU PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLES. i hate it when mother fuckers are ALWAYS going on about this underground band and that underground band, reciting the history of the group as well as the bio of every fucking member. people like that get on my nerves more than anyone else, the people who force music on others, the people who force classification and labels, the people who abandon all distinction. distinction is what is fucking important. it's how we know what band is what band, it's how we become inspired, reach outside of this smoggy atmosphere and into another realm. when people classify bands according to sound and genre, or say that they play in a _________________ band... what's that? it's setting up perimeters, establishing boundaries on how the band can sound. there is no room for growth, instead there's just a mold of prefabricated sounds and arrangements and topics. cliches develop, and eventually the whole ______________ scene dies out. they're your favorite band right now, but what about later on when they cease to grow because of the labels YOU gave them?

and above all else, never EVER be that fucking close minded about music until you yourself can play, and develop talent. i've heard a lot of people who think they reign supreme because they "love music" or because "music is life". i mean, of course it is, that's why we're into it. no one needs lame ass people ruining the music for them because they are too simpleminded to respect that some bands sound good and they dont fit a genre.

yes, this is directed to someone specifically. and yes, that person plays music. and yes, i've heard their music and fuckign hated it.



it's just weird that people use music as a medium to advertise their knowledge. i dont give a fuck what genre a band is, i'd rather listen to them and become inspired to be better. perhaps if some people spent less time on the internet finding stupid ass obscure no-talent bands, they themselves could find talent of their own.




















fuckers.
(10) COMMENT

[07 Mar 2005|01:43pm]
There are greater sob stories out there. There have been better tragedies, more elaborate truths, more negative consequences, and larger tear drops. But still, this is the only story that affects me completely and only.

I've had this trouble differentiating truth from facade, friend from foe, happiness from anything else. Over the last semester, i've felt myself change a lot. At one point I cared a lot more abotu school and education. At one point i felt like school was effective and mandatory and that in order to be highly successful i needed it. But now that i'm here, what? I can't afford $12,000 a year out of my pocket on tuition and room and board. I don't have a meal plan. I cant bring myself to get out of bed anymore, i can't stop thinking. i cant stop lamenting.

and it's sofucking lame, that i am here pouring out very personal thoughts and feeligns on an online journal while one of the happiest songs:ohia songs i have ever heard plays in the background. but, that's me.

Not many people know the extent of the drug use. Not many people know the shadows of whatever this depression is. Some people don't understand anything that is thrown at them. If this were anyone else, it's something i could easily brush off my shoulder, store the generalization in the back of my head, and pass judgement.

but there's more to it than that. I havent seen my father in almost a year and he lives less than an hour away. we only talk when i need money--- having to beg and plead for hours, only agreed to be "lent" to me if i pay him back asap. Nah, no one ever set up a college fund for me.

what about the work that i'm not doing, for the classes i don't attend? I don't know. it seems simple enough, but it's too boring. there's nothing stimulating me anymore, and i believe i have priority over myself... but whatever. i'm going to set up an appointment to get examined. something's wrong, and i ignored it when i noticed. now, everything is out of control.


i really don't know what to do anymore.
(1) COMMENT

[02 Feb 2005|02:39am]
the new mars volta cd, "frances the mute" has left me awe struck. everyone must hear it.
(4) COMMENT

[27 Jan 2005|06:48am]
I took too many pills today. Reached out a trembling hand from the floor, searched blindly for the phone. Clutched the orange bottle with a clammy palm. I forgot the number, collapsed in a heap of drook and clothing, rocking in the corner. Crying.

The sun filters through the window a little less magically than it used to. I used to try to count the dust that just floated through the air. Matching numbers, finding patterns.

I've grown up too much, i guess. The curtain is drawn and the lights are off. Rose petals litter the floor, and sheet music is strewn on the charcoal carpet.

The desert seemed to speed by, the headlights capturing the occasional cactus balanced between dirt and asphalt. The moon was red hot, and the dark mountains jutted into the violet night sky. The car rocked, the highway made up of a cheap mixture of sand and gravel and tar. Potholes, cracks, unevenness. They all helped test the suspension.

I want to see the ocean.

I want to see her.

I want to stay awake.

I want to meet the man on the moon.

I want to walk on water.

I want to turn hay into golden thread.

I want to make sense of it all.

My eyes were long ago caked with the images i've come to associate with that negatively narcistic view i have of my past. the whole reason i need to escape. the force that drove this distance between us.

once, i fell in love.
twice, i've wished for it.
thrice, i've kicked myself.

I feel that some things have changed, though i cant pinpoint what. I forgot who i was, back when people liked me. That's changed. I know who i am more than i know anythign else. but...

but...

is it worth it? self actualization, the premise to a bright, successful life. I used to dream about being famous. Travelling the world. Writing. Taking pictures. Documenting.

But sometimes documents show things for just what they were.

fuck that, i'll build a legend.
(3) COMMENT

[26 Jan 2005|03:32am]
[ mood | high ]

Wake up. Dripping with sweat. Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Heart thudding. Why is everything black and white?

I blinked a few times, couldn’t focus the haziness from my eyes. Inside my skull, my brain must have been glowing. Nothing was so hot, or hazy, or invisible. I know I never left the room. I know I must have gotten up because the place was wrecked.

Putrid. Lewd. Offensive. Caustic. They all work the same… describe things, sound unpleasant. It’s life. It’s my life. And I don’t fucking care anymore.

The most unpleasant thing I can say I have the displeasure of remembering is hearing the fighting every night outside my bedroom door. Of our trailer. Greensboro seemed more alive to me then… I seemed more alive to me then. Carefree, vivacious, curious, and innocent. I don’t remember where it changed. I can’t bring myself to trying. I hate that it had to do with me being the only tie my mom and dad had to each other. I was delivered many a message from one about the other, something that would make me hate them both even more. Tennis.

In this whole scheme of things, I forget which I should prioritize.

I blatantly lied to her. Told her I was going to class. She sent me money for books. She sent me a few hundred to help with tuition. If I am not here for myself, maybe I should do this for her. Wake up on time, go to class. LearnStudyPassGraduateWorkProduceGainOverflowExplodeFailDie. The end. And somewhere in the sequence, I have achieved her dream, relived and refueled by her through me. But at least one of us would be happy. If wasn’t born, she could have kept her full scholarship. Que sera, sera.

Twice I’ve smoked pot with a kid who had no sense of smell because someone attacked him and hit in him repeatedly in the head with a glass goblet. He was weird. He freaked out. He was out of control. He will be rich once the lawsuit is settled.

And so my college life has been weeks of waking up late, skipping class, getting stoned all day, eat {for the only time, smoke, sleep. Tonight was different. We smoked hallucinogens.

I’ve never gotten so hot so fast in my life. I peeled off my clothes, attached to my dripping skin. Felt the sweat run through my hair. I turned the air conditioner on 60 degrees, the fan full tilt. And I was still too hot. I ran outside, back in. Saw some tracers, felt an unbelievable high.

The other night a girl told me she thinks I smoke pot because I haven’t gotten laid in so long. I think it’s so I have an excuse not to think. I do it too much, I have mastered this veil of an obnoxious, unintelligent, immature nobody college kid. And people think I am as deep as they can see. It’s weird how I notice things like that, how they cut their eyes or twist the corners of their mouths. I can’t really understand why the think I’m not on to them. When I tell them all the time to be honest.

Wake up. Panting. Sip of water. Glance around the room. Hear a thud downstairs. Grab a bat. Creep down, taking the back entrance. Slowly peer around the corner. Just the golden retriever. Breathe in. Drink some orange juice from the carton. Creep up the stairs, smiling. Lie down. Sleep. Peaceful, elaborately serene and relaxing.

Sometimes I’ve envisioned people’s deaths. From their eyes. I’ve been the soldier. The toddler wandering into traffic. The teacher killed by the student. The dog being gassed. The flower. The sun. And I will probably never experience anything like this.

{we enter: Passed out, tied to a hospital bed. Handkerchiefs out. Eyeliner running. And they all have dollar signs in their eyes.} {Cut scene.}

{Fade in from black.}

The grass seems greener in this hangar. Covered by then broad pieces of 20 gauge aluminum. When the wind hits it right, the building whistles. I made a mountain here, decorated it with trees. Added a creek. Rocks. Bears. Birds. Plants. And then what? I had created a world, and get nothing fruitful. Well, I’m bored with teasing them and sending messengers and soothsayers. The joke isn’t as funny the 30th time I’ve played it. In the mean time, I will pick them off one by one. Do you hear the halls dripping? The violin screeching in time? Can you hear my footsteps? Boom. It doesn’t really matter how they go out. They need to be replaced.





high sleep is the best.

(1) COMMENT

[20 Jan 2005|03:27am]
[ mood | high ]

i just realized that i have the world figured out. well at least something in me is sensing i do. maybe this is a core element of my personal development and self awareness? maybe i self-actualized? maybe im just another stoned sex-craved adolescent with big dreams and grey future?

most of you would say the latter.

but the whole point is, i am happy. i am happy not doing anything. i amcompletely satisfied with my thoughts and my ideas. i enjoy the black of night and i appreciate music and words and overall intelligence.

why are YOU really here?

(9) COMMENT

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