An analyst in nurse's clothing

You are so terrible at keeping in touch. So I'll leave this with a memory. I want to smoke cigarettes and listen to Regina Spektor with you in this quiet snow shower. Resume your busy life.

Every night before I go to bed, I make lists of whatever I learned or created and try to arrange not only a meaning, but a subtext. Austerity suits me in life, but in letters I think in terms of a buffet. Whether or not I even desire it, the lighting and environment demand some stacks.

I've become quite interested in biographies, which I feel is some subtle cue that I am growing past fiction, or that fiction is somehow juvenile. I miss fiction, but lately I find myself only reading biographies and anthologies of poems or short stories. It's a gross kind of pretension that seems fitting with my new job. People may not be able to spell or pronounce ciabatta or baguette, but they can put them away like nobody's business. Like so many... er creative? types, I feel ill-suited towards labor. Perhaps it is the general interaction; so far everyone at my new job, like so many before them, have tried to impart a lesson in insincerity re: public interaction. My formal politeness is somehow more hostile than shrilly exclaiming at their every utterance.

I havent been writing much, just happily devouring book after book. I've neglected Netflix and any attempt to court someone in favor of a chaise lounge and iPod. Post-modern Oscar Wilde is ready for the gallows.

Hot and Fresh

Usually when I am in the mood to combine blood and ink into a parable of past transgressions, I make a mask. I make a character that thinks my thoughts, but is not me. Right now I am too lazy to write. This is a journal session, which I hate to do because it's not fun. It's life, it's black and white and it is really boring.

While grinding my coffee, I was thinking about a strange phantom emotional limb to mourn. The limb of the insincere friend. The shiny background to a life of parties. One more person to ash in the guacamole or pilfer the refreshing taste of confessional headache. As one ages in a proper and dignified fashion, these people become fewer and fewer in the aperture of a life well intentioned. These days, when down, people who actually care about you give you carte blanche to mope or purge the blackness of concentrated, personalized villainy. Instead of worrying about boring someone, I worry that they worry about my tendency to say things like "oh, don't worry about me killing myself. That is a lot of work, a lot of recuperation and given the state of my life I can't plan a day, much less a death." I havent even written that great book of pointless tired venom yet. And we all know it will go up in consumptive value once we see the author couldn't wear a glitterball tux with their tranny date or couldn't cope with the idea that this it.

The coffee is done and the room is dark. These books beckon me into their insular reprieves from mundane hurts and trivial desire.

Welcome back.

Something of Import

I was going to write a critique of the American obsession with vigilante justice and situational morality and neat story arches that allow you to free fall into your own value system, but then I started watching TeeVee. That was a joke, that last part, but seriously, I was. The deadly sins don't stop at seven. You can hang yourself from the flagpole with your pride waving in the breeze. The imprinting, the patterning, the genuine desire to become who you have always wanted. What is the actual difference between changing yourself and hiding behind a self-made mask. The cool math boy scene without a single female voice. I suppose muses don't understand copyright laws. The desire is always greater when fueled by failures of the past. These vectors of memory lurking in someone else's detritus. We're all dumpster diving for clarity, dusting off the poor little rich boy mythos of our prophets and poster-children grown up and discarded. Going through the cracked and weary spines of our underlined atheistic dogma that took root in academia and followed us into "the real world". "Abandon all hope" amended to "Ride it Out".

I just want to write a story about the salesmen of the apocalypse. I want to use the stories I've heard, the themes I've loved to build something I can be proud of. I dont like to delve too deeply in this format, out loud in the swirling electronic graveyard. But I suppose whispering to a void is better than talking to myself. I talk to you to tell you about the people who inspire me in their own indulgent ways. The select phrases repeated, your catch (and release) phrases, the fazes of the moon. Whoever gets the most stage runs the risk of the bad review. The hurt lingers far beyond the wisdom of overpriced tea bags. Your faith in the future sustains me. The desire to never stop: traveling, smoking, drinking, learning, moving. It is kind of reassuring to know that we can live a fairy tale, we just have to be prepared for the costume changes. It's kind of a one man show.

Spirit Animals

Revisionist historians pulling the strings, the melody struck a chord. Finding happiness in the sandbox along the temporal fold. This is the only city I have been able to walk at night with a beer without meeting a soul. A phone, an IPA, an empty playground... no not an indie movie preview starring a Culkin. My evening was a nice end to several days worth of ruminating. The reading, the writing, the reformation.

Hopefully the salient points will remain like bones at a crime scene or shells at the beach. You inspired me a few nights ago. Just basic stuff about a chance meeting improving quality of life and realizing being an adult means acting with knowledge available. Above all, trying not to hold your teenage ideals against yourself. Realizing that dusting yourself off is more admirable than flogging yourself into crippling impotency. I love you. One day I may articulate that further.

I will judge myself on the context of my characters. I am writing something of interest, but then I have to throw in a line like "fucking you with a sentimentality dildo".

I probably should have gotten a tumblr a while ago. But I like this. It's like notebook I can actually read later.

The emperor was found dead of (over)exposure. Impossible glamour of ecstatic (enlightened) extinction, future antiques in action. Nothing will weep for you but your wounds. as the shadows fill the room, i realize i have offered up another day to nothing. the surreal quiet was the only company present. the sentiment is mine, the sentiment is fleeting; but the words are universal and familiar. the authors who went the way of the warrior with their words, leaving their contempt face down a puddle of ink.

Memoirists who think their lines and bon mots are worth more than the forest it was printed on. You say growth I say cancer. An insubstantial blurb placed in between ads for used cars and coupons, that's where we all end up. You know that we all need those things, or someone does. The obituary equalizes a lifetime of inequity. Put the salvation on your tongue and wait for oblivion. It doesnt mean anything if the world doesnt end. The blood is just another stain if it doesnt transfigure you out. But oblivion is playing cards with Godot. your experience leaves you empty. bullet trains, cherry blossoms, lonely adjectives rotting flowers. Of all the hardrives in all the landfills of the world. The streets filled with Dickensian orphans who are sustained by their stories. They were named after saints, but that's where the similarities end.

Wireless Connection

I've already forgotten what seemed so important. I suppose the environment plays a role. Every year has added a decade. Peerless works both ways. I suppose I will find the time to eulogize my adolescent fixations. They will be hobbies. I am no different than every other person who does much for little and keeps the passion close. Like keeping the warmth in a blanket when it's snowing. The warmth leaves, the passion follows. I know this, but I cannot follow it. Like some morality tale punishment, I move in slow motion towards something I want but cannot accept. It's not pointless; it's Pointillism, I am just too short sided to see it. Maybe one day I can take all the advice from the ghosts of voicemails past and do it a fucking solid. This whole noseless visage is wearing thin. People stop caring about missing the point and the silence picks up the slack.

(Laundry) List

I wonder if they will remember me spoiling them. Indulging their little faces with the dim echo of rules and regulations in the back of my mind. The library, our picnics, the those late night slumber parties during the summer of Meatballs, later called feetballs. Tickle tickle feet eating funny faces, funny phases of changing names and silly voices. The fear of being forgotten not enough to stop from living unrehearsed. If I die young(ish) like I hope, I want them to remember all the rules I helped them break and the muffins they helped me bake.

The laundry. For some reason I really enjoy the laundry. How through the years of roommates, I have seen all kinds of clothes. It's a strange way to be a part of someone's life.

I Know Why the Wires Buzz (The Screens Glow)

Nature Shows Us How

It's in the air and in the wires. It's in the blood and starting fires. Falling on old patterns like romantics in love. Or on swords. Sounds of natural war time all lights and glass rattling. The light in the darkness and the shadows evaporating like the newly formed puddles. The build up of heat and release made manifest on the window pane.

"Something to Talk About" is more than an eponymous song from Bonnie Raitt. It sums up the very nature of a water cooler on fire, the primitive internet utility of mass human communication with a purpose. If one's thoughts are diametrically inclined: we are a culture of costumes and quotes, uniforms and theme songs. We are a nation united by hype and disillusioned by inevitable conclusions. We seek the middle and we seek it hard.

The buzz begins with the insiders. We predict, we permutate, we anticipate. And then we fall. We fall into sweeps, scandals and the sweet rush of adjective assembly that tells us what we like. We respond. And if the vibrations are just right, we connect. That ever-elusive combination of mawkishness and insight traversing battlefields of pop culture fallout, current music, and self-awareness. The pre-emptive fears of cancellation, settling and early syndication.

The slow rise pop, like the titular pronunciation favored in the Mid-West, bubbles and inevitably falls flat. But those first fresh sips fill us with a collective joy of camaraderie of culture, ease of understanding.

It's Been _______ Years since my last

I don't go to Church. I suppose I should add, anymore, to indicate there was a time when I did. And as such, I have been to a confessional and find the internet to be an appropriate substitute. A nice jumping off point for the things we hardly admit to ourselves, much less the anonymous void. Why some people make you want them in your lives and others leave you questioning all the decisions you have failed to make.

The kids make me want to weigh every word, and try to prevent hurting their feelings by anger or carelessness. They are sweet and funny and help balance the scales of inadequacy I feel like hanging myself from. I wish I didnt need them to remind me. I wish I could be better without scores of books and songs and films and tv shows that ended prematurely.

Reset.

Read a book to stay awake (with broken glasses)

Whether it be a needle or a trigger, enjoy your 45. I have a hard time writing. Not actually writing, but focusing on a project. I doubt very highly it is ADD or some other shit written on a file in a school in a state I no longer reside in. I have a hard time sleeping. I have a hard time being an adult. Things havent changed much, I feel like I am standing still as the world spins around me. Names, faces, phone numbers orbiting around me (there's a joke to me made). I had a line earlier about the brutality of something, probably humanity and a phantom lasting the length of a song, a cigarette, an errand. This fog of bi-location, which may not be limited to St. Ignatius is making it hard to see clearly.

I think of you often. I have things I meant to give to you, or you left with me, or that reminds me of you. I feel like I am standing between a tectonic plates and being pulled slowly in opposite directions. I dont know what to do and I am avoiding panic by avoiding solutions. It isnt working (there's a joke there). Writing the jokes for an empty stage.

I have read 12 books in three weeks. I go to the library quite frequently. I have a Pell grant and I havent applied to schools. I am finally actually broke. I think I still have a ways to go until I hit rock bottom. My sister was telling me some things my mom said about my dad and they sounded a lot like me. Not surprisingly, I didnt take it well. Most people I know are not doing well right now. It's hard sitting it out as it were.

I dont know why I find phone sex so funny. Or dating in general. I have been on more dates in VA than probably my whole life. The more I meet people, the more I want to be alone. I am trying to do something with my attitude, but this heat is not helping me be productive.

That's enough.

The song rules. The sentimentality sucks.

My nephew is blown away by commercials. He doesn't like the news. He was smiling and banging his knee and clapping during Glee. All in all, a good day.

Huxleyesque mining of pregnant teenagers hormones sold as designer drugs. Every night before I go to bed to some show that I am half listening to, I think about a subject and expound. I literally collapse in the details. It starts like an amusement park ride. Tonight watching Glee, after a day of The People vs Larry Flynt, Whatever Works (Lucier and Cortney's movie for sure), and Wild at Heart, I have OD'ed on panemotional sweetness. Sharp lines and the ties that connect and sometimes garrote us all to each other. The shadows cast from the hanging dead... and birthday cake commercials inciting gleeful toddlers. That's me.

I'm super excited about any possible job I might get. This week has been much pounding of the proverbial pavement. And... this crap.

New TV shows on Fox.
Eclipse soundtrack.

So I toast you all: To vacations that occupy a lunch break, the mawkish and the mockable we hold dear.

Little Less than Drunk

I take society's rules and fuck them just like I will you after some moderately priced white wine at Applebee's. I'll take you there and wow you about sports only seen on ESPN3 and quote the more obscure Will Ferrell oeuvre. Some people search for that spark, well baby I'm the Chicago Fire, shrouded in mystery and out of control for a while. Just call me Trailer Park and Ride.

Saying that you are mourning yourself, your life, your decisions, seems almost like a ridiculous summary of a derivative film at this point. The polarity of death and life; a meaningful life outside of financial responsibility and on to the more tenuous and ambiguous nature of good or spiritual depth begins to seem like a folie a deux between a person and their fictional creator. To say you are only close to someone when you are hundreds of miles away lends a certain adolescent romance to our rapidly expanding remembrance of things distorted. And I dont know what else to expect from myself, a mere spectator in a deteriorating locale, the lone tourist in a burning building. A sense of urgency has never been a virtue of mine. I let things marinate until I am ready to discard or immolate them. The people I care about seem further and further away on this fanciful desert island of correspondence. This life of mere adequacy peppered with the unstable and the unattainable serves for a skewed road map to a destination I am not sure I want to visit, let alone surpass. I just want something to fill the years instead of quicksand and bursts of clarity before a stupor takes over and I forget everything I used to want.

A Town in the Distance

Farewells are in order.

A town that evoked Peter Pans and existential fans deserves a proper goodbye. A shack where cards were dealt and egos were dealt with. The fear was all around us, the loathing in the mirror. All the characters we met, invented, insulted, I thought I would make them a typewriter graveyard. You stole a dead woman's diary, and her blue dishes next door. We smoked to kill the time; to watch it leave with the smoke and the daylight. While you rarely listened, when you appeared with a Tarot card tattooed on your chest, I supposed I was somewhere in the ink. We were a treasury minting phrases and memes.

The sweat, the bikes, the whiskey, the smokes. We lived well. We observed the strange and the sycophantic. We committed crimes. Switchblades, narcotics, psychotics, the absurd panorama of the fore-granted, the theatrical and the fleeting. LSD, christmas lights, foursquare, beer by the case, piss, public pools, parents, parties, perversion. Each one deserving their own eulogy, let's call it a mass grave. Let's call it a pizza. Let's call it even. All of us were present, all of us gifted.

Sad to see the giant tranny who loved Electric Feel and Edie Sedgwick's wardrobe go. Sad to drink coffee alone. Can do without the sweaty scene hangouts with the accompanying photography, the Hep C positive guy who smoked crack on our porch, the bottom rung of bureaucratic employment. Will drink to the architects of this emotional fallout shelter, the shrapnel still on the battlefield.

This was the year of upheaval. There were the years of deconstruction both academic and personal. When you get your cliche card punched by the avant-gardians of a de rigueur aesthetic. Days that passed too quickly in a vacuum. The seal broken, out in the world we traveled. I told you once of a train that was leaving, where would you be when it stopped. Maybe our relationship was like gravity, this shared belief to keep things moving. Entropy is my new reality these days.

This was the year I would call the worst one yet. You were going to be the non-denominational version of a rehabilitation center for my attitude, and my ego. I thought I would grow and thrive, help you feel alive. For years now we have been passing cars on a one way street. Where are we going? It's been six years since we went our pilgrimage west. Our defining weekend, our shared zenith. I stared at a moon glazed in ale, at a night still and pale.

This was the year of it's not you, it's me. It is actually more minute and boring than that. It's now the year of knowing what I want, and knowing it isn't going to be easy. A new way to fail perhaps, but success has a way of surprising you. Our values were always different. I know I was your version of teenage rebellion. Your parents didnt like me. I didnt like anything.

We don't fit anymore. We can give this a stay of execution, but the outcome is going to be the same regardless. There is no governor to pardon this, there is no one who would want to.

Never look back.

It's a Sad Salvation

I was listening to Sufjan Stevens' "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." recently. I hadn't listened to it in a while, because it is disturbing, like Tori Amos' song about rape. But hearing it again, I thought back to the first time I heard it and I could remember it well. It is in a rental car in Seattle, on a quest to find Lake Washington and the greenhouse where Kurt Cobain took his life. I was so freaked out hearing that song on the radio, but also impressed. Growing up in a training wheels town, Seattle was the first place I saw where all the small town "artists", misfits, intellectuals, addicts with vision, can go. These big cities filled with soy drinks and literate cyclists. We all get to an age where we decide if we care more about safe schools or decriminalized drugs, or both I guess. A town where they show Almodovar and Waters for midnight shows.

You dont get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate

I watched Cecil B Demented, Drop Dead Gorgeous, and Kissing Jessica Stein while drinking some Christmas tequila. It was really nice. This roommate thing is starting to feel like a 1950s divorce and it makes me think what if there was nothing there to begin with. I suppose this is the new found marathon viewing sessions. I'm going to make a picnic tomorrow and enjoy this weather and away from the never-ending Netflix queue of distraction from reality. In all likelihood, it will either rain, or I will be attacked by pelicans/mosquitos/the elderly.

Simplicity

Reading a short story, drinking a dirty chai, thinking about rights: personal, reproductive, Constitutional. I hate(d) my parents, say the f word way too much. I write letters to the past and have no hope for the future. I love my friends, my books, my solitude. Trying to fuck life into a cliche, not to let irony kill me. With too much time getting away from me, I have less and less to say. The form is taking and I am trying to fill up pages with characters and stories. I've learned a lot. I know nothing. They say the best way to find something is to stop looking, so is the best way to love something to stop caring?

Still a sucker for a big nose, long trench coat and a government paycheck.

Strange

I was typing in my blog address and 1st Internet Church came up. Which is strange because I was going to blog about religiousness and free will anyway. The nature and burden of choice, personal responsibility and cultural influences. I know, that shit sounds boring, but it was motivated by my roommate sounding like a neoconservative asshole last night and my head refusing to explode at the right time. And then my sister confessed she wanted to try to raise her kids with Jesus in their life. Um what... I thought my cool atheist punk rock influence would prevent this, but alas, no. I mean they have their whole lives to feel guilty and terrible about being alive, masturbating, falling in love. It is hard to keep up with the separation of dogma and fanaticism, so why taint a perfectly beautiful child with that? Granted, there could be a nice way to explain the atrocities of the Bible, I myself had a Children's version of the Bible and see how I turned out. I know the prayers to St. Francis, Serenity, Nicene Creed, Apostle's Creed, etc. I am just really irritated right now by Jeff and his bullshit Machiavellian economic endgame and his strong arm rhetoric. People are defined by choices, but don't bemoan being a white upper middle class male. You have everything and you don't have to make hard decisions.

Astrology and/of The Avatar

Kingsley,

I was writing you a letter this weekend, to be transcribed onto the internet, to save you from my handwriting, as I know you hate that sort of thing. All the type is the same, the subtext is not underlined on the internet. But I was looking at my bookshelf and this book jumped out at me. I let you borrow it and we both loved it. I remember I got it a this huge discount book bin that mysteriously disappeared shortly after, like a Twilight Zone storyline. I thought about hipster culture deifying as only atheists can, the outdated and the forgotten. I hope we all learn Morse code as a lesson in moronic protest. My only worry for us is languishing in entropy, as the mundane becomes more attainable, and more desirable. I doubt we will ever lose interest in the fascination of ourselves in this universal backdrop of dead stars and variations. I love this mixtape site and the circle jerk of like-minded "purists". It's like arguing over heroin in NYC, circa 1975.

This post belongs to Joseph Campbell, Tom Robbins, Woody Allen and the Avatar.

Over 10 years ago, this friend of a friend introduced me to astrology. I suppose most of my friends have this person to blame for my categorizing based upon star sign, rising sign, moon and my mood at the time of introduction. It has also shaped my interest in semiotics, language, psychology, literature and pop culture. I love movements, what makes something fit and what excludes - Nothing includes like exclusion fits in this sentiment. It also complements my fascination with chaos theory and ordered randomness by putting things in boxes only to set them on fire. These cursory expositions on personality with their quaint adjectives and engaging anecdotes prove that as much as you know something, you know that there is room for doubt, without a doubt.

I watched Swimming Pool, which was great. I love a movie that can still pack a surprise in the last five minutes, like Vertigo. I also watched Everyone Says I Love You, Woody's foray into musicals. I suppose he will never get over NYC, himself, and his love for erudition seeking sex. I dont think I will either.

http://8tracks.com/obscenester/i-don-t-need-a-genius-to-have-a-good-time

No Expiration Date on Fun

I have spent about 20 minutes trying to find a proper nomenclature for Hazelnut Steamed Milk gentle readers, and all I got from two sources was a Steamer(David of Landfair states; "If purchased from Starbucks, something douchy with Hazelnut). So it is a Steamer kind of morning here in Sunny Florida. The pool is adorned with those who either worship the sun, or think cancer is too slow a process. I have been reading Harrington Gay Men's Literary Quarterly, eating Sandies, enjoying Steamers, listening to Radiohead. I can hear Anthony quickly coming up with the faggish long haired cat hoarding soft spoken Southern gay voice/persona as I write this.

Last night was spent eating hibachi and tiny octopuses, drinking green tea and eating red bean tempura ice cream. The Orient Express derailed a bit, but overall, a fun time spent watching drunken white people make a case for suburban chemical castration.

I leave you with this thought, "Are we the Proactiv(e) generation or what?". Also, whatever happened to trip hop and Lisa Frank?

The Temperature of Truth

I resent that my problems seem small compared to the world at large. The bread crumbs to my gingerbread personality would be of the artisanal sort. As crises of an existential nature are not covered by Obama's health care plan, I can only say this is it. I still value trailer-parks at camp value, not real estate. I wish I didn't like wine/cheese tastings, the big picture, aesthetics, twee so much. Or I guess admit that I do like these things as opposed to a value menu and a swimming pool. It's not that I'm deep, it's that I'm not shallow (thus obviously proving me wrong). I like mineral water, destruction in art, beauty in minutia, the moment, the then, SAT words, being the zeitgeist's cor(o)ner.

My sister and I used to call things/people "cheap". Not in the sense they were frugal, but in the sense they were histrionic, trite, garish, tacky (the entire cast of Saved by the Bell). I don't know why it made me laugh then and now, but I suppose it is indicative of something. My mother loved two things when I was growing up: depression glass and gardenias. Both are forever linked in my mind, mainly because when they bloomed, my mom would drive us to the nice neighborhoods and surreptitiously have her children steal these redolent flowers to fill the house. At the time, I thought my mom was unhinged (she is, but for different reasons and now there is pharmacological proof), but now I can think back almost fondly, and in a Faulknerian way on this simple act of familial bonding and trying to instill a bit of "class" in our apartment. I mention the depression glass because I seem to have inherited my mother's penchant for mismatched glassware. When I drink out of my Mayor McCheese tumbler, I think of these ridiculous rosewater shot glass sized things my mom would fill with the gardenias, thus instilling in me history and loathing for antique malls.

In honor of things past, and of trying to find value in the little things, I am going to make a peanut butter/honey sandwich, a boiled egg and an apple my lunch and pretend I am picnic-ing in my air conditioned room and Save Me the Waltz, which I got for a friend for Christmas, but never got around to seeing them, or sending it.

The Teenage What

It's the OC out by the pool. I am not an outdoors person, mainly because I am so white I glow in the dark and fear instant immolation stepping outside. I went to go get a French Vanilla dirty Chai latte (I know, historically inaccurate imperialism: In a cup!) and caught something strange. No, not the bronzing good looking teenagers. When I was getting my coffee, the TV was on Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Inexplicably, it was the only episode I have ever seen. I mean, this weird phenomenon that I see the same episodes of a show years apart, and only that one episode. Most curious of this tale, it was weird alt verse where everyone in Sabrina land has heard of and likes the Violent Femmes. And the Violent Femmes are in the episode. Seriously... weird. But makes sense as to why I would remember it, and in keeping with a day where I read articles on Victorian bachelors, psychology reviews of bad mothers and discussed Grey Gardens (Ghey Hardons).

Too many saviors, not enough crosses

I'm pleased with this hazelnut cappuccino with an espresso shot. I also had a thought of Jesus being used as a salesman. Instead of happy meals, we could have Heaven Jumpers, saving money and souls everyday! Or pulpit smashers about Jesus not being obese (duh, he walked everywhere spreading his word and sensible shoes). Then I realize I dont care at all about whether or not Jesus would endorse this sandwich.

But I still am working on my main theme ideas:
Four Horsemen walk into an ad agency
and a suicide note found in a thrift store overcoat.

My Victorian Perversions, and You

In attempt to be less of crashing bore, and less withdrawn, and inspired by my fellow bloggers/RL friends, I am going to try to keep you updated with my cultural consumption and the inevitable droppings (via poop and bombs). The more I withdraw and consider my position in life, the more I realize my affection/loathing for Woody Allen, Baumbach, Anderson(s)(Paul Thomas and Wes) as showing me my own life as someone with education and emptiness in equal measure. The descendants of the tennis set and welfare checks combine to make one surly, and dimly hopeful. Cleverness is not going to save you, anymore than Christ. So I'll leave with you a witticism of my own devising: "These are the days when Christ gets you paid and Dylan gets you laid."


Cat's Cradle - (Did you know Vonnegut got a Master's degree in Anthropology for this?)
Spook- Mary Roach. Science and its shenanigans with the search for the soul.
Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood. Phenom noir novel within novel. Great aphorisms.
Following the Sun - A Bicycle Pilgrimage from Andalusia to the Hebrides. Wow, I know I am kind of a douche, but in the best possible way. Same with this guy, biking with his old Peugeot from Spain to Scotland, from the Spring Equinox to the Summer Solstice.

21 Grams, Lost in Translation, Veronica Mars, Buffy, X-Files, A Serious Man, Broken Embraces and most importantly, Avatar: The Last Airbender.

I like my myths violent, my enlightenment self sufficient and my comedy understated.

Liking Emilíana Torrini, Anais Mitchell, twee and Paul Simon a lot right now.

Any suggestions will be taken into consideration, or at least reviewed.

Come On Over and (Trouble)Shoot the Shit

When I was young, my mom told me everyone remembered where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. In our love of democracy and the notion of some kind of equalizer, America was hit hard by the loss of their prince. The idea of a suave, beautiful, family to rule over us, our delusions of our distant Anglo Saxon ways was powerful. That and Vietnam, here is our disillusionment in a decade. Well, I suppose in my own way, Kurt Cobain's death was that. I was too young to feel it, but I can understand why it was so painful for the generation that precedes me in time and the one I feel culturally attached to. He died in the spring, 3 days ago sixteen years past, but found today. I remember in high school I brought cupcakes for his death, in with a macabre flair only celebrated by the young. I heard Smells Like Teen Spirit in a Nike store one time and couldn't help but think so this is suicide. The reluctant voice of a generation is what all the magazines said, but it is more than that. The American notion of being obsessed and repulsed by the spotlight and the shadows cast.

Bulk Singularity

The room fills with conditioned air. The stark white walls are great for projection. So this is "living the dream". I have an eternity of nothing to do, I should be writing. I should be happy. He is just doing what he is supposed to do. He got the degree, he got the job, he got the luxury apartment. But there was a time we used to drive for shows, liberate bullshit, have similar interests. The house contains silence along with the super cooled air. I could be wrong about everything. The days of youthful vegetarianism, recreational atheism and stylized misanthropy seem like they belonged to all the other teenagers, even though I wore them as proudly as I could nonchalantly get away with. Judge not on the content on my coffee mug, but the contents of my dirty mouth. I need a war to stand my ground, as it crumbles beneath my feet I can offer a belief. When meditating, you are supposed to relinquish worldly things. I don't meditate, but I remember working shitty jobs I could do the same thing. I would look at every person and think about them doing something mundane, like going grocery shopping, getting the mail and then less mundane, like getting their heart broken or putting a pet down. These things that are supposed to unite us: patriotism, shared sports team just offers a case for nihilism. Everyone is the same thing, but as they say, God is in the details. This Pepsi or Coke government, with a splinter cell of Fanta does not inspire me with confidence. The removal of the label of the vice is the closest we will get to understanding.

I was reading this book that mentioned the First Law of Thermodynamics applied to human thought. Naturally, the analogy of computers was made. Our unique humanity is analogous to a computer, filled with files and programs. And then one day, it will crash.

Lame

I have been watching more films than usual of late and felt the urge to share. Broken Embraces was such a beautiful film, the scenery with the vivid colors served as almost another character. The art in the homes, the layout of the homes, the bookshelves... I loved it. And then I started thinking about themes of films and the difference between being entertaining and being important to the genre/director/zeitgeist. The theme of the meta-reality of a failed/faded artist in the film. Affluent white people with their failures vs. the war film vs. the heist etc. I just like seeing the world someone else might see it, instead the way I see it. I suppose that's why people watch films.

No life vest, but I can swim

Things have been rough lately. I like to say rough so I can think of a sea storm, like I am weathering my mediocre middle class problems exacerbated by a simple rhyme scheme. I didnt feel well yesterday and had these strange dreams. In the dream, the narrator (I assume me, but that was never verified) was announcing this recent stranger who for some reason was sleeping with another version of himself in a blue sleeping bag, a Freudian noose. I also was thinking about nooses, graves, bloodshed and other dark terrible things that night. So I want to share this story of something that makes me happy. A Patronus memory, as it were.

When I hear the song Cecilia, I think of this amazing woman who I was friends with who later left her husband after 23 years of marriage to live in New Orleans. That divorce was worse for me than my own parents. But before they divorced, the song came on right before an acid trip in which me and several friends/housemates sang this song a Capella into her answering machine.

There are a few perfect moments, dancing with a tranny in Mexico to Nirvana, eating dinner at a friend's removed relatives house and playing family board games with someone else's family, being in a care with someone you love and doing anything from singing to smoking to drinking to drugs to roadside diners to a Dairy Queen in Indiana to giving your two year old nephew chocolate ice cream and watching the snow while everyone else sleeps. They go by fast, faster than growing up, faster than ashes from burned bridges. If you are lucky, you have so many of them, you can stand to give some away. But if are you like most of us, you cling to the good ones like Mrs. Havisham in a rotting wedding dress.

Yeah, somehow I managed to take a good thing and turn it dark and sour.

http://8tracks.com/obscenester/we-thrive-on-bones-without-them-there-d-be-no-stories

It's Been Awhile

After a series of unfortunate events was renamed as my autobiography, I have taken up writing. Actually, this is more jotting. I'll need an editor and a psychologist to properly place these thoughts. But this just spurted forth, where the blood just barely dries.

I was never a Cher Horowitz. In my future apocalyptic nightmare, quotability remains the evolutionary attribute of the cultural dinosaur. There will be the odd coelcanth, perhaps of the Brian Fuller oeuvre, but make no mistake, they will teach Mean Girls and Lost in school. Raskolnikov will disappear in the ones and zeros, a part of the mass grave of ethnic dead guys we will cease to eulogize. From stone to silicon, the 10 Commandments to infinite bandwidth, we've come a long way baby. The notebook is an appropriate name for the laptops that will replace them. By saving the environment, we reduce our literacy to the Kindle and the text message. The vinyl hipster will be replaced by the librarian, they can keep the sweaters. Instead of our dramatic fires, of which the charming villain wants to set their world ablaze, nothing but the soft radiation glow of the cathode variety will warm our hearts and softening minds. Quills replaced by pencils, replaced by keyboards to keep our fingers moving paces behind our progress. It is awe-inspiring. The stars still belong to us.

http://8tracks.com/obscenester/get-out-more

Test Pattern

Quotidian things

Judas Iscariot. Expounding on peccadilloes. The evolution of the American folk hero via the celebrity virus of revisionist historian on the smallest of scales. Some thoughts heavy on my mind, and part of a larger something I am writing which now has characters and a plot. Fist bump

Took the kids bowling tonight and they had a blast! It was some kind of pizza party for this incoming Navy ship, so picture a white trash Valhalla and you'll be in the moment with me. The bowling staff were overwhelmed by the spouses and children that filled the place. Needless to say, the pizza queue was worse than the DMV, with twice as many felons (or potential felons). A night of families, prison grade pizza, beer, and of course bowling... what a blast! Most fun we've had in a long while. There was also this amazing black lady with distressed jeans with pink leggings through them. She was the resident superstar, giving out raffle tickets and telling jokes.

Here's a list of movies I've watched during funemployment:

Little Miss Sunshine
500 Days of Summer
Kurt and Courtney (with the exception of Rozz Rezzenbek, a terrible piece of sensationalist shit)
About a Son
Let the Right One In (I have scoured the internet for the song in there... any help?)
Sherlock Holmes
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Ladies and Gentleman, the Fabulous Stains (teenage Diane Lane/Laura Dern w/ Sex Pistols &Clash members)
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (White hipster thought piece)
Extract (not that great, surprisingly)
Annie Hall
Up in the Air
Good Dick
Iron Giant
SLC Punk
Half Nelson
Bye Bye Birdie

Caught up on Archer and Community. Watched the entire Buffy/Angel series.
Found a Comic Book reader
Started emailing every place I've worked for the past 4 years to FINALLY file taxes (need that gov't $)

Christ, I need a job.

No One is Exempt.

you, your inheritance, and your creeping paranoia

So sad. So successful. No one is exempt from pain. Just sitting alone watching the rain, romanticizing a life encased in the pages of a well worn spine. A tome, a tomb, a poem a womb. The most primitive of information exchange, tracing letters in the steam. If someone is fragile, are we equal? As people, can we condone pain as this growing experience that both embraces and transcends humanity? A world without pain, is a world without love. Being reduced to what we are, what we want, acting out an objective we would like to believe was written just for us. In the stars of space, the napkin of a bar our parents met in. A snow-globe of parts and phrases, we are all require some assembly. The glue dries. We choose words, ideas, places to act as our spirit totems in a culture that patronizes or ignores such a imagination. Falling off a carousel of the prosaic, this fascination with starts and stops. The in between falls by the wayside, like fast food garbage, our legacy in the wind. Our formative years spent deciding on stability, redemption, happiness. Which path has the most rest stops, ease of traffic.

I'm watching this movie that illustrates a long held belief. This overpowering sense that nothing is new, or original, but valid nonetheless. This transition from a linear story to the highlighted reel of dysfunction and deception. The "shallow waters" of our most private desires and how we cope with our decisions. What did we give up to show our possessions? The amusements we rely on and resort to in our evolving interaction. A resonating tale. The acceptance of a part, whether or not you feel it's the one you wanted or deserve. Being there.

Hum a Tune

We are our actions.
Slander and retractions.
What of good intentions.
The signposts for the road to hell,
Where else I am going to find a match.
Comes to your attention
These doors are missing a latch.
This burned down bastion
With half a warring faction.
Trading presumption for pretension
Consumption for contention
We don't keep in touch because I never liked you much

"Your weird and your interests are weird" sic

(Interesting list...its de rigeur for the art school postmodern genre...there are some gems hidden in there, or should i say "diamonds"?)
You raise an interesting point on the nature of being via "the internet", if I do say so myself. The meta reality of being over an expansive medium...
I want someone who isnt just looking at a picture. I like lists, as a base line. Anyone
can, and many do, claim to "be funny". Well, there is a huge difference to me between early Jim Carrey and Maria Bamford, both of whom are funny objectively. I hope that being so specific, I can find someone to lighten me up, but know who I am or have the potential to be. I am tired of guys writing how they "like fun" or hang out. I mean, we all do, so how does that let me gain insight into someone. I would assume that everyone on here is a human being. Check. So fun and pooping come into play somewhere. I would prefer it if people would just say (even through the veil and projection of the internet) Looking for someone to laugh at their jokes and thus validate themselves as being interesting and humorous. Or someone to reinforce the cultural aesthetic decisions I have allowed to dictate my perception of reality. Or someone to blow me in the parking lot at my job.
My favorite are those that say if you want to know more, ask or post one line and complain that four lines is too much on a voluntary site aimed at getting you to connect with other people. Truly, you get what you pay for. So without sounding like a total jerk, people are types. They do things to attract those similar to themselves. If I put I liked "da beach, hanging out and fun" I'm sure I'd get a different and probably more frequent response. If I can't be honest in cyberspace, then where can I be.

Brevity is the soul of wit, after all. :)

so my question is: why do you let your intellect screen so much of your experience?...why dont you let your heart breathe and beat?...who killed that heart...what would it take to revive it again?...why must the world burn so that everything will remain frozen inside...i want to know the story!...i want to know how it happened...

When one makes a self fulfilling prophecy, one gets the desired results. If I had open standards, it would be constant weeding. I suppose mine are a bit constrictive, or intimidating, but I dont know how to relax. Fantasies are easy, life is the hard part.

Intellect doesnt screen my experience, it shapes it. Part of growing up is the tenuous balance between how something is done and whether you don't want to know. From rainbows to special effects, something is lost in knowing, I'll admit. But I am who I am.

Who killed my heart... no one in particular. I was a very sensitive child, raised Catholic, surrounded by the thoughts of redemption, reconciliation and sin. I was an altar server, I stared at a large crucifix for long periods of time. There are so many
terrible things that go on and I'll I can do is be nice. It seems kind of pale in the cosmic balance. Holding my 2 and 3 year nephew and niece, watching the sun set, finding a great restaurant, singing a song or sharing a laugh with a friend ... I do these
things, but just not enough to keep out the thought that it isnt enough.

Get It

If ever I wanted to class up the base of a penis ....

Also, I cannot wait to see how many HOT BOIS by this, sight unseen.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/alltherage/2010/02/qa-cyndi-lauper-one-of-macs-new-viva-glam-faces-1.html

In the Car, Trains and Graves

Coming of age Reagan post divorce, you can carbon date the apathy of the anti-Izod ethos. The road to my generation's atheist aesthetic awakening was paved with cigarette butts and second hand clothing. His eulogy made his observations somehow more valid, as if the pain of understanding was what consumed him. A convenient attachment for another malcontent to be crowned a prophet. The narcotic slumber and the worldwide attention, this is how we watch an implosion on the human scale. We can only take so much, before we become one with the indifferent universe.

If you allow me to indulge in a cultural delusion, this guy deserves a VIP pass to the drug filled disco ball promiscuity of an afterlife filled with bi curious straight boys. When you work around florescent lighting that makes unhollywood undead of us all, there is usually a jukebox. We are accustomed to ironic detachment, after all, there were raisins in our toast. But when you hear peole filled with patriotism, earnest sincerity and a lifetime of heart disease singing it's five o'clock somewhere at 10 am, it's no wonder we turned to drugs and drag(cigarettes and queens) to gain a sense of realism surrounded by the absurd.

Authentic music, death , computers, acceptance and coming of age in the south. This is how we roll, all the way to the grave.

Untitled, half formed

We all pay a price to revel in vice.
I hope yours is cheap, for the silence of sleep.
The slaughtered sheep are yours to keep.
Take your advice, poured over ice.
Keep it down.
Keep it down.
Rome after the fall, I've seen it all.
Often pillaged, the rest an empty village.
Progress stalled, morality appalled.
The gall and the guile, the stall and denial.

Stinking of Your Ex

So you fucked an icon, and in a way, he fucked you too.
Your ungainly evolution with the flashing lights and the frequent fights
With all the icons and exes you put in the ground
With only you to hold their sound
How's it looking lovely?
Always keeping lively
Typecast as your self
Completely exposed
That familiar sneer
Seems a bit posed
The price you paid
The gods you laid
You should have stayed
That glamour fades
That narco cushion
Doesnt stop the fire
In your veins
In your heart
The truth stains your clothes
Like the pen to the page
Evidenced in your art
Your big break (up) is all the rage
You coulda done worse kid,
Too bad that limo was your hearse, dig.

Occam's Razor, applied to dating

The genetic fallout of a match made in Chernobyl. Coming apart at the atomic level,still looks good in a suit of karma. Blood stained charmer

This is what it comes to; a sick degeneration of morals and a fear of intimacy, glad I signed up!

Conjoined at the forked tongue because that brain isn't big enough to share.
That van-i-t-shirt,
Tight enough to show how much "you dont care"
Apathy b(r)and and you
Your face couldnt sell it
With that oh so styled hair
Wake up and gel it
It was only a matter of prime (mortgage) and numbers

Caritas, with apologies to St. Paul

Everybody dies alone, but does everybody live alone? Which is worse, which is more likely? The morally ambiguous protagonist who glides through the murky alleyway of good and evil, all leather jacket clad, blowing smoke out of a smug mouth. Revenge is personal, and by extension, selfish. Can redemption be selfish? A solitary consumption to alienate, isolate into the secure realm of self fulfilling prophesy. The unanswered questions which form our personalities, our later choices and affirmations about the world, in which we were are the tiniest of significance. Looking up, surrounded by the expansive black we are our choices. Everything leads to now, a swirling mass of the was and the maybe and the no. People and loyalties lie in different directions. We get torn asunder while we pray for thunder. It all comes down around us.

Your fantasies are unlikely. But beautiful.

I cannot believe the Saints won the Super Bowl. It's like this alternate reality filled with possibility, or the script for a terrible Spielberg film.

"If you have been rejected many times in your life, then one more rejection then one more rejection isn't going to make much difference. If you're rejected, don't automatically assume it's your fault. The other person may have several reasons for not doing what you're asking her to do: none of it may have anything to do with you. Perhaps the person is busy or not feeling well or genuinely not interested in spending time with you. Rejections are part of everyday life. Don't let them bother you. Keep reaching out to others. Keep reaching out to others. When you begin to recieve positive responses, then you are on the right track. It's all a matter of numbers. Count the positive responses and for get about the rejections." Thom Yorke

An Emerging Pattern

Wake me up sometime before the end of the world. Why, so you can experience something great before it ends? No, I just want to see it happen
"What we once were informs all that we have become. The same love will infect our hearts,even if they no longer beat. Simple death won't change that"

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Pain from Old Wounds: Pink Scars and Empty Bars

Tongues and trips, tasting of acidic bitterness. The cowards and the martyrs dropping ash on the self-serving altars. We wore world weariness like a dead father's coat, a familiar history tainted by hormones and growth spurts. Spurt of the moment, changing every time we closed our eyes to see the stars. You saw the good in me like fog on the stained glass window of a burned down church. Settling for happiness over the nose bleed head rush of the high ground. Take some bad advice, get hurt and accept humanity for all the ill fitting promises of divinity. Every time we spoke of setting the world on fire, I knew you would be our fireman. A St. Paul surrounded by wounded atheists: our hearts ashtrays, our bodies landfills, our minds filing cabinets for the ongoing quid pro quo. Once at that stone bench, across each other with a pack of cigarettes I told you I would save the world if I didn't hate it so much. As if I could be an anti-hero in someone's story, powers of cynicism and fear that the world isnt that bad peppered with bon mots. I'm ready to accept the redemption that gets neglected in the metamorphosis from damaged to productive. To stop saying what if and how come and say so what. That last bad year of tabloid headlines, then to today, all the blood shed along the way. The collateral damage of Stockholm Syndrome suicides. The "I think I like you because I hate myself" greeting card gets burned at the self improvement is exasperation seminar. I want to rewrite the shooting script. Take it as it comes, not how I think it should or want it to. When the environment begins to show in the destruction of the free radicals, the nuclear holocaust becomes a bit less funny, and a lot less romantic. Good writers kill themselves. I'm not ready to take that step. I want to hold the mirror to the lines being cut of my generation. People want the graphic details of a familiar story. They arent ready for unknown beauty, I can crack wise and philosophize, but the simple things keep eluding me.

In to out, left to right.

	St. Vincent And The National - Sleep All Summer .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

	Mountain Goats - This Year .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Finish what you start

Appreciates death to illuminate the importance of now and everything we neglect or protect.

Dropping standards like your pants,
Nobody comes here just to dance.
The motion, the movement,
the music, the ocean.
Dates on a calendar.
I don't like anyone, haven't showered in days
Spent over a decade, saying it's just a ph(r)ase
The time has past, and has become as such.
A rippling puddle and a splintered crutch.

Continuation

They had film noir, we have bubblegum grit. The reimagined neon splash trope of genuine emotion, skewed to service this demographic. No future.

A signature, proof - a pretty face and a puddle of blood. This fine artistic noose we fashion for ourselves, playing hangman with our style until the bloated corpse of our body of work becomes a derisive epithet for "selling out/buying in/feeding the floating shark". That's a lot of integrity for people who grow up wanting to be famous of something, instead of becoming something.
Crayola's Dildo: Growing Up in Technicolor.
You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics. Bukowski
I still want someone to draw this comic for me, about a gay superhero called the Ice Queen that transforms smoking crystal meth.

It's not the greeting card, or the radio hits that are responsible for this feeling. Everything meaningful was a moment in time. By something crafted and precise, we approximate the intangible happiness of a single perfect moment. If we blame the media, we neglect the action. We want to be happy, happy is there, we stay for as long as we allow ourselves. It's that simple.

Older and Far Away

My sister was talking to me yet again about significant others... in an attempt (probably) to help me. She feels I am too picky and thus will be left with nothing. Like significant others are the limited art books or that one Hunter Thompson book that isnt Fear and Loathing at the Friends of the Library book sale, and if you arent awake before time itself to search for it amongst the other faithful, you will be left with a used, stained, cat calendar. My thought before writing this was "The reason people enjoy supernatural things are because they allow deep dark humanity to masquerade as an alien or vampire to distance ourselves from our darker, some would argue, true self." Especially when it is agreed that we are speaking in metaphor, the understanding and emotion seems to be more palpable and less overtly hokey, when all things are really just soap operas. Regardless of the costume and posturing, we all want to see human relationships being created and destroyed like the atoms that comprise us. So in that sense, still waiting for Hiroshima, praying for the fallout.

Lost Cause, Cold Beer In the Dark

You can lead a Jew to Christ, but you can't make him drink.
Peter's in the quicksand, he is starting to sink.

They tell you to begin at the beginning. They want to know. But we all know that they are wrong. Those people, those ubiquitous they, would tell you life was like a high school lunchroom. Do you want those people telling your story, or better yet, telling you how to tell a story. Of course not. Anyone who uses trite and non specific metaphors to convince you of their point of view should be ignored, possibly mocked. I mean, high school lunch room. Please paint that picture for the digital camera youth. Well you see, they (again, an appearance) would make vague, out-dated references to the cliques and the wearisome cliche of high school. Did you just shudder too? I hope so. When you tell a story, you have to make sure everyone knows where you stand. Perspective, like love, is specific. You don't want to encompass everybody, you aren't a bloody local news helicopter, making everything so small and unrecognizable as to encompass everybody. You are'nt some religious group doing the same, using the trite human condition trope to part the gullible and the sensitive from their assets and salvation. But I am, professionally speaking. I am working for the Horsemen, now the Jukebox of Human Destruction, or just Jukebox until an email is formed and properly circulated. More on that.

	Ryan Adams - English Girls Approximately .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

If you know me, let me know your thoughts on the intro. Or anything, whatever.

Cos It Already It Is

For Jane by Charles Bukowski






225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

	Talking Heads - Love -] Building on Fire .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Flash Fire Tropes

The immolation, the immortality. At odds with the ends. The casting of a wide net with a specific catch in mind. The elusive right in front of you colorblind pinata, waiting for someone to beat the candy out of it. The desire for open-minded precision, as opposed to the by-the-numbers figure of beauty. A dry erase slate for a meteor shower mind. Clean, impermanent; again and again. Dirt on your hands, blood on your face. The rarefied air comes in waves and miles to go until you leap. The literary dance in a minefield of popular expression. Oh yes, that would be the fox(hole)trot, where you find neither atheists or enthusiasts.

Kristtalnacht

I dont know what it is with me and vending machines. Tonight, just a normal night, I was downstairs helping my sister in the laundry room. We were folding clothes, shooting the shit, in the empty room. This big, cute guy comes in and puts some money in the snack machine. His Peanut M&Ms get stuck. He tries to tilt the machine, to no avail. I walk over and lend my assistance. I use my shoulder, with all the force of shutting a locked car and the glass breaks. All of it. All over me. Blood, glass, silence.

Other than that, great Popeye's filled day. Trying to figure out how to apply for a government job. Hint, trying to go postal. Right up my alley, I know.

I found this terrifying Victorian kitten e-card thing that has so far yielded hours of entertainment. I read an article about stab proof vests for the World Cup. I am reading a book about the art of killing in 20th century wars from the perspective of the soldier's and their family. I read an article about 30 hornets massacring 30,000 bees. The world is such a fascinating place. I had a great time at the Aquarium and eating vegan enchiladas, watching the Simpsons with the kids and a friend from high school.

I hope its true what they say about chicks diggin' scars. And by chicks I mean potential employers.

Lost Weekend(With You)

You were always someone I admired. To feel something in this generation, to be proud of wanting to see the silver lining instead of fret about the rainstorm was always inspiring. I was a coward, and you know how I feel about cowards. It is so easy to get the cheap laugh, to want to minimize everything in the hopes you will feel nothing. You were brave, a target in fashionable clothes and I was a drunken archer. I am sorry. I mean, we all have our reasons, justifications, and some come out brighter than others, but I am ashamed of myself for not just saying ALOUD that I prefer our tea drinking and optimism to guttersniping. I know I am good at using my quick wit to cut throats, but it doesnt mean I should succumb to it.

The past year was probably the worst ever, for a lot of reasons. Unemployment, moving and utter isolation will do that. We could have made each other's transitions easier, but like you say, pride cuts both ways.

It is so hard to admit that it is okay to see the bright side. To close the scope to a level that includes only things that will make me smile, rather than piss me off. I am falling for someone and it feels nice. Even if it doesn't last, even if he is just a roadblock to an eventual gravestone, who cares. I have spent so much time just building myself a tower so I don't have to talk to anyone, and yet feel a part of the "common people". Nothing has been gained by the sidelines. I'm finally ready to get messy in humanity.

I finally found a man who likes: me , tea, limes, kids, kittens, to make fun of porn. I asked Adam if liking him made me gay. He said probably, but you need this so I am going to be supportive. A big thank you to all my friends for putting up with so much and getting nothing but cheap laughs in return. One day I'm going to be a great person, and then maybe we can even it out.

I dont like life after Calvin&Hobbes. Sidney Carton losing his head, a violent, bloody mob. I'll find you in the rubble, Making time, making trouble.
Van Gogh was a fan of playing it by ear too.
Taking the high road is a solitary journey most of the time.
"reading your blog is like blowing way too much cocaine" the transcript of infatuation, too hard to be simple. "Is my misunderstanding a dealbreaker" No Solomon, honesty is not a dealbreaker.
All the shows and all the blow, worth it. What a generation of worthless trust fund babies,I can't wait to fucking join them.
"The future! That's yesterday's news!"

I'm drinking a 40, seeing all your faces. I'll never forget you, despite all the spaces.

	The National - Mr November .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine