New kicks, new beats, new life

I made a new fucking facebook. What the fuccck. That kid must be making a killing, and the therapists don't even need to invest in the new fuckups that are going to develop out of this shit. Fo real. There should be a facebook how to book soon.

Anyways, I went to Boston this weekend and it was ARRSOMEE. Got schwastty, ran around Boston and loved ittt all. I love that fucking city to pieces. Got some fresh ass kicks.

I have lost my voice. It sucks. I think I'm going to cave soon and go to the doctors. This is not ok. I wake up coughing and it's just awful mannn.

Speaking of man, I really can't stand this 'enlightenment' trend people are taking up. SO HYPOCRITICAL. Don't even get me started. I hate hippies...the end! But I guess life is what you make of it, so go ahead whateverr. Those values you uphold? Yeah, you're actually doing the opposite.

Awee shit. I feel awful, so crummy. I'm like choking on air. Perhaps this is it for me? WHOMP.
Where's the world's smallest violin, hmm?

Honey, please

I love to drink tea with a teaspoon of honey. Especially when my throat is as raw as a skinned pelt. Ohhh baby.

I dropped that memory course and I all at once love/regret the decision. It's nice to relax, but I keep putting off things I need to do and get done.

I am scared I'm going to get bitter and hateful again. But, if I hold on strong I'll be fine.

I'm also sick and tired of acting like it's okay that all these people keep texting me for sex, naked pictures, 'shows' and whatnot. In a way it's my fault, I have provided a lax screening of my expectations. All I fucking want is respect, homie. And I'm not getting it. I want someone to legit ask me out for coffee. Am I too easy? Or insatiable? Ugh.

I'm going to go drink my tea, work out and drive to Mount Holyoke. Stupid basketball game. I don't even get paid. LAME.

I will not allow this day to get 'lame'.
Bye.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust....

The museums must be full at this point. Nothing but old corpses of memories and acts, aged paper and broken voice recordings. Cemetaries, keepers of ghosts. Brittle, old and frayed, we hold on to things in a hopes of finding definition and redemption. We are explained by history: we are who they are, were. The museums must be full at this point. Bones in boxes, and pieces in jars; all we are are a series of collections and numerical catalogs. I will try to find myself in Tut's tibula, but it is the sawed tooth of the brontosaurus that I find relation to. Clutter, my mind is it's own museum. I hold on to the sweet phrases everyone utters, as though replaying them will change history, change who I am. Knowing and not knowing, I hope to find truth, but take salvage in lies. I am my own monster; maybe I'd rather not know, a brush and a microscope in hand; examine every strand, every piece you know. Maybe I'd rather not be shown on exhibit; the childrens' hands stain the Plexi glass window and I am sore from being pinned and glued into every motion I have ever regretted. But I like it this way, a spectacle and feat, a thing to awe at and coo, "I came from that?" Vindictive and repetitive, I am Napoleon's plume and St. Joan's lock, run children, run.
I must go on standing.
The dust settles. It will conquer all. Eventually, yes, but it will be match to the death. When the match hits the tinder, just let it catch, let it burn. Let the bones crackle, let the paper ash, let the victories and acts disappear. The museum will burn, and with that, I will be free again.
Fear the ancient, fear the past, it is nothing but a lie. A story told by the war's winner. Burn the museum; the truth will be free.




I do this tango where I take two steps forward and three back. It's interesting. Sometimes its three forward, two back. Depends on the day. The pattern is more like walking in circles. I'll get it somehow. I just have to. Two weeks til classes start. I am anxious and sad; anxious to make a good impression and start and sad that I will barely have any tales to bring back with me. I have become one of my fears: a bore. I never wanted to lead a life like this, however I am grateful. Two legs, two arms and two eyes, I will get somewhere.

Here's to revival!
xoxo

Drinkin' lover's spit

I tell myself not to be so hard on myself. Guilt was never a good shade for me. But I can't help but blame myself for all the things spinning in my head. I have dug my own grave, and I am certain of it. My fear of silence has provoked a persecution for speech. I have grown not bold, but cowardly, looking inward for the sanctity of some deeper meaning. Nothing is what it's supposed to be.

I was too eager. Too eager to please. Too eager to gain. Too eager to have. To speak. Let me speak. But again, the grave is warmer than I thought it could be. Tell me, should I spin a ladder out of the fine silk of tales I tell, or strengthen the noose? My, oh my, my tongue has traveled more than my feet.

And the snow outside reminds me of some purification rite, something I can't complete. But I will lay under the lamplight and let it wash over me, cover me. Perhaps my manifesto will come to life then, but should I speak it, I would damn it. The shapes on the streets grow old and morph into welcoming embraces. If only, if only.

Too eager. What do I have to prove? A broken tooth and a nailed eye, one by one the senses dry and I will lie lie lie. Under lamplight. In false embraces of cold discontent. I have created this, and only I can live by it. Destroy me first, but let the dream live out it's purpose, framed so neatly in the pinpoints of broken snowstars. Frozen tears of the people I have loved and who have gone away,

please don't be ashamed.



xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


I have a lot of thinking to do. Purge. Let go. Live.
I am tempted to open the windows and scream, but everything silences me.
I will never take your promises. Anyone's for that matter.
You have lost the right to examine my life.


Why the fuck am I crying.

She said, Look Ma, no hands

FUCK. YOU.

It just feels so good to say that. Maybe I don't really need revenge. This tit for tat game is fucking stupid. You treated me like shit, and right now I'm eating shit out of your hand. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH MY GAME?? Damn, all that sentimental shit has taken the hard out of me.

Well, this ends here, now, tonight. Meaning, I'mma wake up Stone Cold Steve Austin style LIKE A BOSS. I hate this trapped animal feeling. I don't need you, I don't need them, I don't need anybody but the people I love, and I can only count them on one hand, sometimes two. You're not one of those fingers, but I'd gladly show you one.

You're so goddamn fake too. I don't need any more of these 'fair weather' friends in my life; or more accurately, you get at me when your life is standing still. I've weeded most of that shit out of my life.

Ps, talk is cheap. You have something to say about everything. Fucking do it already! Stop telling me over and over like you're bragging, just fucking do it. Jesus.

Plus, I think I got fucking pink eye. Stop farting in my eye asshole.

I AM GOING TO BED PISSED NOW...like a boss.

But I'll wake up stronger. Everyday is proof of that.
<3

No Date

Fuck that shit, he's a fucking creeper.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Self involved and self inflicted, don't
you understand your words get under my skin?
Might as well just fucking wear me, the newest
spring fashion making my toes and tip o' the tongue tingle
with tulips springing outta my spine like cancerous
growths on the lips of landlocked lovers.
i always loved the sea.
It's like one o'clock in the morning,
but I have two things I really need to say
only it keeps gnawing at the gaping maw like
some sort of sign, or better yet, prophecy.
just let me say it.
I'm so sick and tired of hearing about other
people's agendas, like I'm the twelve o'clock meeting
rescheduled for four, but shit there goes my trust again
lining the velvet pockets of smiling chesire cats who
always seem so goddamn happy.
i always wanted to be happy.
Your words bury me whole like some sort of slow motion
avalanche I had been warned of years before, but like
some dumb struck leper I leap into
the folds of the conundrum only to be swallowed
gulped, inhaled like some small fact by the brain.
you pick amongst the ashes of my bones some
sort of trinket to take home, some sort of prize.
Am I really worth remembering, or just something to look
back onto?
i wish time would fold onto itself.
take this, take all of it, don't you know?
I made this for you. So have it.
I gave up on this route a long time ago, but trust me,
it's so much easier now because I can call myself crazy
and they'll all believe it.
Skin me alive and puppet the muscles left into some sort
of useful figure, like the storyteller, or the dreamer,
better yet, some dirty assed schemer.
i've left vanity and pride on the bedside table,
and look at me now, the hole has swallowed my stomach
whole, hole.
I am nothing special, you say, you act, you show.
And yet, I feel like I can show you the world.
Well, wear my skin, and it's my world.





No date. He was weird. I just couldn't do it. He was ridiculous. That's ok. I didn't really care much. I just thought it was cute at first. Then it got weird.
Jules and I are going on a cruise, and I've realized, I am only somewhat happy when I have something to look forward to.

And yet, I am all the more scared of looking forward as well.
1:27am, what a reoccurring time in my life. Must be my muse time.
Night.

DATE

He asked me out for a coffee date on Wednesday :)

This is so effing cute.