February 8th, 2009.
hi, um, whatever, so, yeah.
I guess that sounds enough of what I'd be saying right about now, as of the writing.
But you know. It's kind of sad. And kind of nice. And pretty.
I don't know if I could handle this every day. I don't think I could.
I start to fall apart after a couple of cigarettes, kid, I'm sorry.
Fuck, I don't know. I guess this is my innate sense of self-awareness telling me
"Hey, J--, it's not really you saying this."
or if it's saying something like
"Hey, just fucking tell her you love her."
but then I don't. Because then I feel like it's just the drugs talking, stalking.
And like, as tiedyeheadbandwearingmotherfuckersittingonafieldwithacousticguitar as it sounds,
I really do love you.
There was a conscious attempt at making this even a little bit more meaningful.
I ignored it (which I of course doubt).
But honestly, I don't know if I could take anything much more meaningful than saying
I love you, D-- M--.
February 20, 2009
February 19, 2009
Eleven eleven.
February 17th, 2009.
Don't make a wish.
Don't pay attention.
Don't think about life.
Don't do that.
Don't smoke a cig.
Don't eat ham.
Don't chew with your mouth open.
Don't care.
Dont punctuate
Don't repeat yourself.
Don't repeat yourself.
Don't steal.
Don't believe.
Don't make a wish.
Don't make a wish.
Don't pay attention.
Don't think about life.
Don't do that.
Don't smoke a cig.
Don't eat ham.
Don't chew with your mouth open.
Don't care.
Dont punctuate
Don't repeat yourself.
Don't repeat yourself.
Don't steal.
Don't believe.
Don't make a wish.
February 18, 2009
Trip to absolution.
February 8th, 2009.
Around 10:00 AM.
I told her that we needed to talk. She looked at me with a curious eye, and we went upstairs. She went to the bathroom while I sat on the bed, trying to formulate something coherent to say. I had a pretty good idea.
She came back in, and we pulled the covers over ourselves. I stumbled over the words, saying "I try not to burden you with my angsty, suicidal, depressive shit but..." before I break into sobs. I try to laugh it off, giving a fake smile that fools nobody. I let off a few laughs as tears course down my face. "You have no idea how many times in the past 12 hours I've wanted to apologize for being such an annoying asshole," I stutter out, as any word is caught between breath, sob, and salty rivers.
She just looks at me with a perplexed smile on her face. "I don't know what you're talking about. You have definitely not been an asshole. You've been wonderful," she said. I don't remember exactly what she said next, but it happened to be the only thing that anyone could have said then to make me feel better. I grabbed her fiercely and cried hard, my alternating laugh/sob now abandoned.
I told her that it was stupid for me to say it, but if she wasn't my friend, I'd be killing myself right now. Permanent solution for a temporary problem be damned, I don't enjoy life. She told me to shut up and held me closer. I kissed her. Life got okay again.
Sometimes I just need to talk about it.
Around 10:00 AM.
I told her that we needed to talk. She looked at me with a curious eye, and we went upstairs. She went to the bathroom while I sat on the bed, trying to formulate something coherent to say. I had a pretty good idea.
She came back in, and we pulled the covers over ourselves. I stumbled over the words, saying "I try not to burden you with my angsty, suicidal, depressive shit but..." before I break into sobs. I try to laugh it off, giving a fake smile that fools nobody. I let off a few laughs as tears course down my face. "You have no idea how many times in the past 12 hours I've wanted to apologize for being such an annoying asshole," I stutter out, as any word is caught between breath, sob, and salty rivers.
She just looks at me with a perplexed smile on her face. "I don't know what you're talking about. You have definitely not been an asshole. You've been wonderful," she said. I don't remember exactly what she said next, but it happened to be the only thing that anyone could have said then to make me feel better. I grabbed her fiercely and cried hard, my alternating laugh/sob now abandoned.
I told her that it was stupid for me to say it, but if she wasn't my friend, I'd be killing myself right now. Permanent solution for a temporary problem be damned, I don't enjoy life. She told me to shut up and held me closer. I kissed her. Life got okay again.
Sometimes I just need to talk about it.
February 17, 2009
Trip to Hell.
February 8th, 2009.
About 8:00 AM.
Staring into my reflection in the mirror. My cheek bones are gaunt, my jaw muscles flex. My face is skeletal, Iggy Pop-esque. I open my mouth and see a mess of black scribbles that trickle slowly across my face. Leaning back from the bathroom mirror, I put my hands in my pockets, slump over, and sneer at my image.
There's a screaming voice in my head."This is everything you hate about life. That person there is the fucking Devil. That person there is everything you hate about life. You are the fucking Devil."
I turn so my shoulder is facing the mirror and look back, mug shot style, as I talk to myself. "Get a good look at the only thing that's ruining your life. You're a fucking waste. Accept it." It's hard to tell if I'm speaking out loud due to the coherency of my thought patterns and urgency of the message I'm trying to make sure I get across.
My eyes seem smaller and more related to little chips of burning flint than the sheep eye dissection masterpieces I deconstructed in my high school biology class. I can literally see the gaping holes in my face where no flesh exists, leaving chunks of jaw bone and muscle.
I sit down on the floor. A thought of finding some sharp object and killing myself passes briefly through my mind, but I ignore it. I grab my knees, rocking back and forth as I try to control my rapidly spinning head. Put my head on my knees and close my eyes.
Bad fucking idea.
The blackness behind my eyes expands and drops out from below me. There is no ground underneath my feet, my eyes are riveted to my heart. There's an infinite agonizing howl resounding in my head that is pulling me inexorably downwards into myself.
I rip my head up and spread my eyelids wide. A flicker, a tear. Fuck that. Infinite pit of bleakness, you do not tempt me. I'm not suicidal enough to be a total teenage death statistic, not motivated enough to be a successful, intelligent contributor to society, not apathetic enough to not care about anything. I'm left in the middle of middle grounds: trying and failing and wishing and waiting.
About 8:00 AM.
Staring into my reflection in the mirror. My cheek bones are gaunt, my jaw muscles flex. My face is skeletal, Iggy Pop-esque. I open my mouth and see a mess of black scribbles that trickle slowly across my face. Leaning back from the bathroom mirror, I put my hands in my pockets, slump over, and sneer at my image.
There's a screaming voice in my head."This is everything you hate about life. That person there is the fucking Devil. That person there is everything you hate about life. You are the fucking Devil."
I turn so my shoulder is facing the mirror and look back, mug shot style, as I talk to myself. "Get a good look at the only thing that's ruining your life. You're a fucking waste. Accept it." It's hard to tell if I'm speaking out loud due to the coherency of my thought patterns and urgency of the message I'm trying to make sure I get across.
My eyes seem smaller and more related to little chips of burning flint than the sheep eye dissection masterpieces I deconstructed in my high school biology class. I can literally see the gaping holes in my face where no flesh exists, leaving chunks of jaw bone and muscle.
I sit down on the floor. A thought of finding some sharp object and killing myself passes briefly through my mind, but I ignore it. I grab my knees, rocking back and forth as I try to control my rapidly spinning head. Put my head on my knees and close my eyes.
Bad fucking idea.
The blackness behind my eyes expands and drops out from below me. There is no ground underneath my feet, my eyes are riveted to my heart. There's an infinite agonizing howl resounding in my head that is pulling me inexorably downwards into myself.
I rip my head up and spread my eyelids wide. A flicker, a tear. Fuck that. Infinite pit of bleakness, you do not tempt me. I'm not suicidal enough to be a total teenage death statistic, not motivated enough to be a successful, intelligent contributor to society, not apathetic enough to not care about anything. I'm left in the middle of middle grounds: trying and failing and wishing and waiting.
February 16, 2009
Trip to the world of the living.
February 8th, 2009.
Around 6:00 AM.
[from my desktop:]
it's that single space in between time
when you're almost close to hitting the backspace button
after you've written something incredibly
fucked up
and you feel the need to hide it or
the inability to express it or
the inextricable torture of trying to find new words or
just fucking having someone read it.
Around 6:00 AM.
[from my desktop:]
it's that single space in between time
when you're almost close to hitting the backspace button
after you've written something incredibly
fucked up
and you feel the need to hide it or
the inability to express it or
the inextricable torture of trying to find new words or
just fucking having someone read it.
February 15, 2009
Trip to Heavenly satisfaction.
February 8th, 2009.
Around 3:00 AM.
We were walking around a lake, she was holding my hand. The other guys were stumbling ahead of us, engrossed in their own worlds.
"Hey. Hey," I said, pausing slightly between them and emphasizing the second, but only a little. "C'mere."
We stopped walking, I bent my neck down as she went up on her tip toes. We met at the lips, and I saw stars.
We started walking again. Went to the dock. Laid back and admired the fractal spacial organization of the stars as they glittered in the Heavens. We got up and walked back to the car. After starting the engine, life slowed down. Imogen Heap came on the radio, and we all had aural orgasms. Stopped at 7-Eleven. After we went in, the colors almost blinded us. I wanted candy, no, water, no, a slurshee. She tried to pay for the giant slurshee with one half of a dollar bill, but the manager would have none of it, so I pulled out a crisp dollar bill. Bought some smokes, too. Got back in the car, where the sober driver laughed and laughed at us.
We drove back home, smoking with the windows down. I had my hair in a ponytail. It seemed sleazy, but everyone seemed okay with it. We snuck inside quietly. She and I went upstairs and sat on the bed, admiring each other's beauty. We hugged and kissed, and I felt infinitely happier than I'd ever felt before.
Around 3:00 AM.
We were walking around a lake, she was holding my hand. The other guys were stumbling ahead of us, engrossed in their own worlds.
"Hey. Hey," I said, pausing slightly between them and emphasizing the second, but only a little. "C'mere."
We stopped walking, I bent my neck down as she went up on her tip toes. We met at the lips, and I saw stars.
We started walking again. Went to the dock. Laid back and admired the fractal spacial organization of the stars as they glittered in the Heavens. We got up and walked back to the car. After starting the engine, life slowed down. Imogen Heap came on the radio, and we all had aural orgasms. Stopped at 7-Eleven. After we went in, the colors almost blinded us. I wanted candy, no, water, no, a slurshee. She tried to pay for the giant slurshee with one half of a dollar bill, but the manager would have none of it, so I pulled out a crisp dollar bill. Bought some smokes, too. Got back in the car, where the sober driver laughed and laughed at us.
We drove back home, smoking with the windows down. I had my hair in a ponytail. It seemed sleazy, but everyone seemed okay with it. We snuck inside quietly. She and I went upstairs and sat on the bed, admiring each other's beauty. We hugged and kissed, and I felt infinitely happier than I'd ever felt before.
February 14, 2009
Goat Boy.
[from sketchbook:]
and hoist AKs
She tells me
She can't be won
BonesTerrorists wear butterfly wings
and hoist AKs
Every raven and crow has whiteOptimism Club
feathers and black, bruised eyes.
Jack-bots are automatons that roam theI am a champion
streets, murdering passers-by execution style.
She tells me
She can't be won
Arsonists 4 Jesus
February 13, 2009
Sonnet Number Zero.
February 4th, 2009
Don't be a stranger, who gives not their care
To others among us while we sit and relax
The silent opinion, or a glassy-eyed stare
Worth now so much more in the hands of the lax.
But for now is virtue the escape of the rich?
Without their conniptions they are not remiss
In their solid conclusions that bring out a stitch
Of laughter in my side, my hatred to dismiss.
I wake on the side of the gutters I hold dear
And with shivers hope for your face to see
For what have I wrought but my own captive fear,
In truth, I'm not nearly as clever as thee.
Don't be a stranger, who gives not their care
To others among us while we sit and relax
The silent opinion, or a glassy-eyed stare
Worth now so much more in the hands of the lax.
But for now is virtue the escape of the rich?
Without their conniptions they are not remiss
In their solid conclusions that bring out a stitch
Of laughter in my side, my hatred to dismiss.
I wake on the side of the gutters I hold dear
And with shivers hope for your face to see
For what have I wrought but my own captive fear,
In truth, I'm not nearly as clever as thee.
No cabinet appointment, nor monetary wealth
Could make me feel happy or give worth of self.
February 12, 2009
Plea.
February 4th, 2009.
I feel like I fucked up again. Sure I didn't, haven't done anything bad. Keeping up with work, passably. Sitting around all fucking day with a bottle of water in my hand and a sweet tooth like Christ's bleeding side.
My heart's been running on an erratic pacemaker for so long, I'm beginning to forget what it's like to just relax and be in love. I need her so badly. I need a smoke. I need something. I'm needy. I'm very sad. This isn't the way I want every damn day to end up.
Should I have to explain myself to the people who claim to love me?
Shouldn't I already have told them?
I wish for a kiss.
I feel like I fucked up again. Sure I didn't, haven't done anything bad. Keeping up with work, passably. Sitting around all fucking day with a bottle of water in my hand and a sweet tooth like Christ's bleeding side.
My heart's been running on an erratic pacemaker for so long, I'm beginning to forget what it's like to just relax and be in love. I need her so badly. I need a smoke. I need something. I'm needy. I'm very sad. This isn't the way I want every damn day to end up.
Should I have to explain myself to the people who claim to love me?
Shouldn't I already have told them?
I wish for a kiss.
February 11, 2009
...no joke.
[From sketchbook:]
don't wanna be self assured
because it's true that nothing lasts
and it's like this, our paths diverged
you got your own separate past
i'm like a maggot crawlin down
the back of your skin
like an unwanted bastard frown
shoved back inside, within
There's a hooker in my business suit
but he doesn't want a dime
just grab your head and bang.. pollute
use up all your fuckin time
don't wanna be self assured
because it's true that nothing lasts
and it's like this, our paths diverged
you got your own separate past
i'm like a maggot crawlin down
the back of your skin
like an unwanted bastard frown
shoved back inside, within
There's a hooker in my business suit
but he doesn't want a dime
just grab your head and bang.. pollute
use up all your fuckin time
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
