branches on a tree

gonna try out tumblr for a bit, so posts are going to be happenin' over there at insipid-inanity.tumblr.com.
if I decide to return here, I'll either say so over there or just start posting here, depending on where ya look.

caw, caw.

shut up.
shut up.
shut up.

creatively dead, laying in bed to feel unalive again. aches and sores and roses for stupidity down and around. the dark tells me why I want to follow a fool and be swallowed by your misunderstanding sundering and plundering.
I don't like you, who fakes like a faker faked. who cries about lies twice told by someone who isn't real, who isn't actual. I don't like you being there where I can't see you objectify my existence, and make me think twice about who I am.
I don't like you who can tear me down and stand tall, a damn dame who owns not a single mirror.

but I don't hate you, though I'd love to, though I ought to. it's easier not to. it's easier to move on and let you rot a bitter memory, than let you fester in false prominence. because I didn't lose you, you who can't even find you, yourself.

so shut up.
you're blatantly spouting foul falsities about idiocy twice gained, unaware of honesty and self awareness.
so shut up, and don't bother me until you wake up. wake up and realize the difference between who we are, how we are.
but since no one ever will, let's just leave this a bridge once burnt, and never one rebuilt.

kangaroo.
goodnight.

g'night wish.

I'm not sure what I think life is all about,
what I need or want it to be, or how I want to interact with anyone, and everyone.
I'm sure I want to smile, but how or why - I have no idea at all.
Also, I'm not sure why people can't be honest with me or themselves,
and I wish they'd stop using others as excuses for their life.
I don't know why it bothers me what others decide,
I realize everyone likes to think no one can affect how they live,
but that's a naive delusion.
Join another species, you know?

I will find happiness, I just don't quite know how yet.
But I'll try and try and try.
And I'll remain hopeful that honesty can remain prevalent.
I want people to tell me what they think honestly,
I want people to save me from unrequited honesty.
I want people to realize the importance of nurturing their emotions,
I want people to realize that what they really think, isn't evil.
That it shouldn't be hidden, it should be shown.
Maybe not to everyone, but definitely to those who should know,
or can know.

Well, I don't know, whatever, right?
I want honestly, good and bad. I want you to talk shit openly,
or say scary things truthfully, because to be honest, people may
surprise you. They may even save you from the numbness of
your own foolishness.

So no more hotheaded fools, please.

Night.

unsure why

Unbeknownst to you, the unloved staple of worldly affairs, I can read your eyes.
I can read your eyes that tell stories, poetically rather than phonetically, if you get it.
Here is where I tell you how wrong it is to believe in you, and your heart,
it's the time where I say to you, why do I even waste time pretending I don't care?
For that matter, I can remember thinking, why do I waste time wondering if I actually do?

Life is a confused mass of twisting, and constricting veins, moving emotions though time,
transcribing existence between people, between you and me. Between us and them,
we exist simply to notarize the bond between boy and girl, and any combination of.

If this is confusing for you, then try to understand.
Close your eyes, breathe in and hold it in your chest,
hold it til it burns, til the muscles in your neck flex,
til your body desperately tries scraping around for oxygen.
Do this, and breathe out. Gasp, and gulp air,
and realize how much affection you have,
affection for something you never think too much about.

Humanity is a beast so fickle and frightened, full of harsh unloving ignorance,
so full of unrealistic beliefs and practices, and woeful hypocrisies.
Yet it exhumes such beauty, such raw expression of emotion and creativity,
that without even trying it easily varies between under-and-overwhelming.

And yet, with no good reason, you've chosen.
You've decided that I'm impossible, without understanding me,
or worse - yourself. It's pitiable, because as hurt as I can
pretend to be, or not to be - it won't bother me like it will you.
Or so my humanity says,
as I walk away quietly,
slowly pulling chances
from your fingertips.

No matter how many I want you to have.

conversing with a headstone.

are you still writing?
I know you pricked your finger on the coffin hangnail, but has that meant anything?
life is a mess of exaggeration, so I'm not fully sure where to stand, lest I break something. then again, you never really held breaking things against me. did it ever bother you?
it would bother me.
I don't know if I can report good news or not. all I can say, is I'm still here - whether you like it or not, though I prefer to think you like it.

I'm alive still.
did you ever stop writing? I never could read that mixed handwriting of yours. too confusing, too cryptic. or so you may think.
right now, my soul has fret buzz. not that I mind, or that you care.

dear you,
do my changes bother you?
would it be love if you saw it?
you can be honest,
it's not like it's important.
my existence is mine to judge, can't you get over that?

is your grave clean?
do you get visitors?
would you care?
do you even have a grave?

are you dead?

when did you die?
why did you die?
do you even know who I am?

I wonder if we'd be friends if you weren't in a grave.
are you in a grave?

or is it just that you're so cold,
you may as well be dead to me.

would it be love?
no, you'd know it, especially
since you never have.

by the way,
get over it.

sex and art and sex. (and the number 42).

so I've been thinking.
but it hurt, so I stopped
and haven't posted much lately.

but that stops now! sorta.
I mean, it's not as though it really matters,
since this is mostly self-gratifying.. for now.
I do have readers, and people have talked
to me about this blog, which I appreciate
immensely.
anyway..

for one thing, first and foremost, I'm going
to talk about my grammar/typing habits real quick.
I usually spell everything correctly,
I pride myself in that fact, because I love words.
but it has been brought up to me that I don't
capitalize correctly, and format my blogs awkwardly.

to that I say, I don't care.
it's something I constantly shift between,
I realize full well it's improper, but the entirety of this..
experience?
isn't proper. it's just a mess, a mish mash, a gash of
my flooding thoughts and so on, and so forth, et cetera.

so yeah, back off my letters, hoe. ho? hoe. gotta be hoe.
urban dictionary says it's hoe, so.. safe. well, I say "safe".

anyway anyway anyway.
this has little to do with the original intentions behind the post,
being sex.. and art.. and more sex, obviously - if you read the title.



the first sex is irrelevant, I just thought double the sex might spice the post up.



I love art. drawing mostly, in fact I do the majority of my drawing in pen.
not good art pens, just really sharp tipped pens I have.
if I'd given any amount of attention to my drawing over the years,
perhaps I would have improved - if at least slightly.
so I've decided.. I'm going to draw every day, until I'm not awful.
not that I'm awful, I just tend to do crazy collage-style drawings
and I always feel like they have a very singular focus and I'd like
to do more than just that.
agh. blah blah blah, more arts.
might start posting a comic I've been considering about an abstract
bird and a little girl, using them as a medium to discover the intricate
details of life (namely the number 42 if we get right down to it).
anyway, that may happen at some point - or not. I haven't decided.

as for the sex - sex thing,
I've been watching Mad Men lately (up to Season 2) and I'm really
enjoying it. however what I've noticed in all these big budget,
uncensored television programmes is the prominence of sex,
and it's emotional misguidedness (not a word but whatever).
not that I'm booing sex at all, I'm just saying I feel a bit of a disconnect
when I see some of these scenes because when there's reasoning
behind the scenes it proves to make less sense that it would have if
they just decided "right then.. LET'S FUCK." and then fucked.
and typically all the scenes in Mad Men are result of promiscuity
and passionate urges - which causes no disconnect between me
and the characters. it makes sense in the show for it to happen.
BUT *spoilers-maybe-kinda-sorta-not-sure*
there's a scene where the main character becomes incredibly
helpless and seeks out the attention of a love interest for
sexual comforts. well.. I can't say that's TOO odd, and it's
probably me that's the odd one out, but I feel like when
a character in a show is having a crisis of emotion and identity,
the comfort they seek should be less sexual.
it almost felt like it shattered the perception that the character
is feeling weak, falling apart even, and instead of seeking
the arms of a loved one, it just kind of forces a sex scene
on the situation awkwardly.
if it were real life, I'd be like.. well the guys got a hard on, whateva.
but in a show, it's kinda like.. why does "hollywood" have to force
a seemingly great and emotional scene for the character into a
cookie cutter sexually masculine scene so it's like
"he's no bitch, he's gettin' pussy" or something weird like that.
now this is a half-rant, and seems totally baseless as I read back on it,
and I wouldn't argue it with this, but there is a disconnect in that scene
thanks to how the sex scene feels forced, and it bothered me.
it's like.. sure, sex is sexy, but if you ate ice cream whenever the fuck
you wanted you'd just get fat and lazy.
hm.

anyway.
art. gotta do that shit.

PS

there's this girl I talk to
she is the bomb
and quite funny

but she's mean to me,
she threatened to beat me.

the end <3

on my funeral.

I don't want one.

A funeral, that is (if you didn't read the title). I'll obviously think about it more later in life, but right now? I want to be cremated and mixed in with some fertilizer for a flower garden or something.
No service, nothing churchy, nothing fancy.
I feel irritated whenever I hear it's not for the deceased, it's for those in mourning to gather and find solace - or peace. I feel irritated because while I'm not against mourning, I am against an event being held under such a flawed pretense. I don't want my post-mortem moments to be awash with negativity and a memory wrapped in dark clothing and smeared makeup.

Of course this is assuming I'll find anything in my life that'd result in such a funeral, but either way.. If it's my death, I don't want it glorified in boy public manner. No food, no service. Group up and mourn on your own if you truly wish, but don't arrange something as foolish as a wake for me.

Or something. Half-asleep ramblings. Goodnight.

short, unintended hiatus. to end.

it's been a little while since i've written on here. I wouldn't necessarily call it neglect, so much as the fact that I've been busy enough that I don't have to call it neglect.
I've been in Spokaneland since Thursday, staying at my friend Wayne's house.
on tuesday my friends Wayne, Justin, Collin, and I will be leaving at like four-something to go to Kennewick. why Kennewick? we wanted to turn going to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers reunion on screen into a roadtrip. so we'll leave a few hours before the time of the show, and let destiny take it's golden course.

anyway, I have blogworthy thoughts on hold. they shall be coming.

title post broken.

Dear cellular-sounding-board,

I have writers block, and it won't go away. Expressing myself is made difficult by invisible walls, and yet I'm going to try anyway.
Why do I have writers block, you don't ask? I'd attribute it to feeling depressed, but sometimes I can find inspiration there so I'm making that a symptom, because I want to write but can't. So I get frustrated with what I do write, constantly deleting/scrapping entire paragraphs and pages of dissatisfaction in a flurry of fury, grinding teeth, eyebrow scrunching and all.
Despite this I'm going to try anyway.

By now I've deleted about twelve paragraphs of unfocused, disorganized, half-hearted thought that I've tapped - rather than punched, my phone is newer than that - into this digital blogfront.
So.. I'm going to see if I can't sleep off this feeling of broken English and whatever, whatever, etc, whatever.

Adios,

Mister-interweb-blog.

it's today, I hate today.

it's today.
it's a day that will probably end in dismay,
that's the way it usually is anyway.
today is the majority reason I hate August,
the "morbidity" isn't near as real as the morbidity.

I have faith in everything that ever was or wasn't,
I hope to move past my everything and anything.
it's not like I'm eternally broken,
I know I can recover.. eventually.

I hate today,
and I stupidly keep wanting something very specific to happen.
but I know there's absolutely no chance of it,
who do I think I am? someone worth it?
I wouldn't go out of my way for me.
or something, right?
emo rant over?
did it start?

I have happiness somewhere to be pursued,
but I can't pursue anyway.




ANYWAY



I'm in Spokane right now.
It's my home, always has been.
Things in Yakima have progressively been getting worse,
actually that remains true since I moved there.
Sure there were moments and weeks and months..
Where I could see myself staying a while.

But now I'm thinking seriously,
I don't really want to live in the town
where I found out you don't exist anymore.
I don't really want to live in the town
where my family went from broken to shattered.
I don't really want to live in the town
where I meet shreds of hope and lose them soon after.

Right now I'm thinking about working a little while, and saving saving saving.
And after I save, save, save, I'm thinking about moving back home, to Spokane.
Away from you, and you, and you. Sure.. away from some of my friends,
but I'd still see them. But I don't want to see you, or you, or you either.
I'm thinking about moving back, and attending community here, and working,
and saving saving saving, and then after my community years.. Either Gonzaga or CWU.
I want to be an English major. I want to move on with my life,
as many people have already done.
I'm a stupid little bug drowned in amber,
a fool eyeing the barrel of a gun, I know it's odd.
but that's what I am, and that's what I have to overcome.

My greatest hits,
my soon-after heartaches,
move on from me quick and easy.

and whatever?

plan,

job, save, spokane, job, community, save save save, gonzaga/cwu, live.

to the girl from the gamestop, but not the one I met that was working at the one in spokane today, although that one liked my shirt but it doesn't matter.

dear cellular diary.

there is immense beauty in a place, and it's very much not a foolish dream. there are wonders here and there, that I can't hope to obtain.
it's always the simple things I find I enjoyed most. the fact that I can make someone with such an overwhelming sense of presence feel embarrassed and barely able to contain a smile may have been one of my favorites.
that level of unconditional and awkward happiness I could help another achieve just by being me, it still feels unfathomable.
but achieve it I did, and whether you read this or not, or even realize it's for you, since I'm too weak to say it to you myself, I'll have to convey it through this cellular dialogue between boy and blog..

it wasn't just "fun", it was surprising and scary. but while it may turn out that I'm totally wrong, I still felt there was chemistry.
it was very complicated beneath the seemingly simple exterior of our hanging out and occasional dates.
but no matter what it may or may not have been, it was great. it felt good. and among my favorite things about you, other than how you genuinely seemed embarrassed by me (in such an adorable way to boot), I honestly think I'll miss your honesty, the look you got when things were quiet, and that despite the surface feelings of fear and insecurity.. deep down you actually made me feel warm, and calm.

anyway, this is the best I can do for you, whether you read this or not.
I do hope life treats you beautifully, and as much as I'd like to be the boy you wrap yourself up in, I do hope you find happiness and don't let fear or anything overwhelm your ambitions.

so.. goodbye, you.
thank you for existing in my life,

no matter how short it was,
it was definitely beyond sweet.

skip this one.

I don't know what you think of me,
probably very little, or much less than that even.
That's alright though, I don't really know what I think of you either.
To be honest, there's never been space for consideration, or any
form of understanding. We occasionally exchange words, sometimes
many, sometimes few, sometimes often, sometimes rarely.
Things I've learned about you..

You're cautious, and naive. Not that that's bad, we all have our
little quirks, in fact I'm probably more anti-social than you are,
I just happen to attract people for some reason.
You're very smart, and creative. It's something about you I respect,
I'm always wanting to see your creativity in action although I rarely
get the opportunity. I'd like to have the opportunity though, right?
Well, I don't know.
You're wonderful, even if you don't notice it, beautiful, even if you
won't acknowledge it. The world could easily collapse under your
bidding, if only you allowed it, though I doubt you ever would.
Sometimes I feel like you're lying to yourself to protect yourself,
though I can't argue with that without being a hypocrite.

I wonder, if you read this, would you know it's about you?
Would it matter if you instantly thought it was about you?
Maybe you'd take this as some kind of confession,
though I don't know why you would, there's nothing of
the kind here. To me, a "confession" has more mutuality than that,
more substance.
Would this scare you? I'd probably be disappointed in you if it did,
your personality isn't nearly that weak, if weak at all.
I wonder, if you read this, and knew it was about you,
what would you do? What would you think?
If you knew this was about you, maybe I'd tell you that it's okay to
let others in, find help and build bonds with those close to you -
not saying I'm one of those people of course, I don't know what
you think of me - you're much too confusing a person.
You never paint a picture in black in white, there's only ever a
canvas of greys, what should I think?

If you read this, and thought it was about you..
What do you think the chances are of you being right?
Am I talking about a real person? Who knows.
The fact is.. I doubt there's anyone strong enough to
react to this anyway, though I highly doubt you're a reader.
Or are you? Or aren't you.
Is this confusing enough?

You, who I'm talking to, who you don't know if it's you or not,
may or may not exist. I may just be speaking figuratively,
imaginatively, while that's a little odd in itself, it follows my.. character.

However, also talking about a real person would make sense too.

BAM.
I decided not to do the PC game blog thing, my irritation ran dry,
and I decided it would break any flow this blog maintains.

*cough* "flow", yeah right.

Caffeine High 51

Apparently that last one was the big five oh, whatever's big about that.
Fifty blog posts in nine months, I honestly could have done much more,
but I'm extremely impressed with myself for sticking with it this long.
As a present, tonight I'm going to rant about video games,
specifically what's ruining PC games, and fascism or whatever.

Not much of a present, I don't know who my supposed readers are,
but it's something I want to do.. Just not yet, maybe tonight if I can
manage any form of a caffeine high.

there's a silver bullet for you in the cupboard.

clarity.

I honestly don't know what I think,
there's a great many things that have been washing over me lately.
From friends, to family, to everything and anything that may or may not be.
Today I stuck a needle in my heart, to try and sew the gap closed -
figuratively of course. I'm not fucked up enough to actually try that.

What I realize is that I don't usually have what people need,
and I'm alright with that. What others sometimes don't realize
is that I don't have what they need.. I wish it were easier to
deal with that.
In my own special ways, I'm fairly broken,
and yet there are many who wish to lean on me.
It hurts as my soul cracks and creaks under
the collective weight of my gathered fate.
To be honest, I only truly have enough of myself for one person,
and while some may think that's odd - it's true.
I don't have it within my power to make the right people smile,
nor do I have it in me to express myself in a way that feels right.
It's a common curse, I don't think I'm special because I'm not,
no matter what anyone might read in my words.
Pulling meanings from them that aren't there,
like pulling off the toe nails of the clueless.

I'm not special, in any way shape or form,
and this isn't a method of self-deprecation,
it's just the honest truth.
Because just as I'm not special, in most ways..
Neither are you.
It's not a bad thing, of course we all have
little quirks that make us who we are,
we are unique little flowers, and blah blah blah.
But no matter what I have that you don't,
I'm definitely not more important than you,
nor am I less important.

No matter what issues anyone may be dealing with,
we're not the first to suffer by any length,
and there are definitely those who have suffered more.
Every life is significant, I guess.

It's officially August, and I hate this month. I associate it with a bad memory,
and use that memory to funnel every single one of my other bad memories,
a way to deal with my PTSD on a yearly basis almost (as unhealthy as that
is in reality), I've slowly been doing better with it though.
But still, I don't like August, it makes me feel sick to my stomach at times.
Even now realizing it's here, I don't feel well. But I'll get through this, not
like I've never managed before.

Goodnight, right?

love, hurt, pain, and love again.

to cough, to scoff. to lick and be licked by the flames of pain that have no aim but to close itself to those that have no wealth of self, holding a rose by the thorns until their palms are torn and their patience worn. to laugh, and laugh away what might be right or wrong, whether or not the choice belongs it is a moment we shan't rejoice or revel in - and a liar so-called might find themselves a mired soul on this day to inspire. inspire what is fake, the very thing that makes our shitty souls quake in such nonchalance, a chance to burn and learn, to make what's ours to take and let it be for your sake - a choice never-ending but always-ended, as we rip rend the flesh of the mesh of reality, so unequal in rite and spite, like a clock broken on a dock or a hawk crushed by a rock, we don't know one from eleven or two from blue. our souls, they vomit subtlety and cascadian viridian, a mountainscape of blatant pain. pain that licks the eyes dry, and cracks the lips wet.
pain, the undeniable emotion that's the source of our ever-eroding soul, that which makes us whole.
pain is chemical expression, a splatter of any colour on any canvas in the world.
it branches and weaves around heart and never sets apart you and I,
you and I.
the ever subconscious progenitor, the ever realizing subjugator,
hurt is the fleeting epitaph of negativity, bastard of wrong and relativity.
locked in a bad space, it seeps into our veins and corrodes our heart,
it blossoms into hurt, and so willingly blooms into pain.
it's pain I want to share with you,
to bring our negativity so close together,
a chemical.. atomic.. anatomical reaction.
don't console this blooming black rose of pain,
whose thorns so wholly dig into what makes me sane.
I share this pain with you,
watching your budding hurt, bloom into beautiful pain,
as it starts to rain, the drops drip splatting on my window sill,
and just by pure will we find tearful thrill in this chill.
as I force pain into your vein,
and let it coalesce in your heart,
your soul.

humanity is stupid and broken, unwilling and messy. but we were born this way, it's a reality. no matter how much we want to help those we've come close to, they often just want to bleed out into your stupid soul, a role I willingly take every time no matter the reason. because I'm stupid and broken, as humanity is.
when we hurt from life, and feel pain, we almost always want someone to help us shoulder it, rather then let someone lift us from the shallow hole we've dug. it's the human way, and for some reason (with great complication often) it works.
it works because we let it work. because for every time we do it to someone, there is bound to be one to do it to us. we share in each others pain, and let it bring us close - a gothic beauty, and idealism.
I wouldn't say that I like it, no.
I wouldn't say that I in particular find it beautiful at all, no.
but I find a kind of.. realistic attribute to it's philosophical implications.
to live is to to be, to be is to experience, to experience is to feel.
to feel is to inevitably hurt, and revel in self pity and pain.
and as a response to that hurt, that self pity, and pain,
we shake the chains of the bonds we've made.
and we find clarity.
and we find a smile.
and we find love.

because to be human, to have this figurative idea that is our soul at our very core, is to love. even the darkest, and most broken among us feel this, this love so clearly bubbling and bursting from within us. and as love can birth hurt, and pain.. it's the emotions sought to recover from those experiences that can lead to more love, as life so ironically loves to come full circle.

goodnight,
internet.

damn.

A couple of years ago I was sitting with my friend Dominique in class, and she was talking about how she was doing the vagina monologues that year. I was curious about it, and she had me read the piece she was performing that Valentines Day, or Vagina Day, or whatever you want to call it.
I read it, I enjoyed it immensely, and I felt oddly.. Inspired. I then proceeded to write a short monologue, from the point of view of an older woman and her past experiences et cetera. It was fairly well received by Dominique, who I'd written it for, a new bit of experience to add to the ol' arsenal (or something silly like that).
I wanted to share it with you, but sadly (for the time being) it is lost.
I hope to find it, or maybe she'll find it and send me a copy, but either way
when I have it before me again I will surely post it on here for the semi-plural mass to read.

rant end.

What about the term "riptide romance"? Nah.
I kind of find it funny how people can be openly dishonest with themselves, something I can never quite achieve to the level of which is currently on my noggin. People are, on the whole, annoying creatures. They're constantly fighting their nature, fighting realism, fighting against everything that is, and might be, anything. I find it annoying, amusing, trivial, transparent, simplistic, and entirely unnecessary. But they won't realize that any time soon, if ever, so how about I go ahead and cough up some text on the subject?
The entire concept of romance seems as though it's being bastardized by my generation (though this may change when we start hitting the ol' midlife crisis, so that it might be passed onto the next generation). Romance has become an overdramatized soapbox of trepidation - yet another annoying label for us to bear as a whole.
We all have our own overbearing issues and crippling disorders to triumph, sure - but there are limits. Humanity, humanity, humanity is a beast, an incomprehensible number of bodies, of litres of blood, of souls. We all fall in love, whether we define it in that manner or not is of no consequence to me, because loosely termed it's the best way to describe it. To love, to marry, to share in age, and to bask in a wealth of good health. It's not about falling to the status quo, or succumbing to conformity - you idiots. It's about life - it's about evolution - it's about the continuation of the species sure. But since we're humans, it's about emotion. It's about the future. It's about aspiration. It's about everything and anything.
If you don't think you're going to fall in love, to copulate and in turn reproduce, if you're "against" that very idea, then I'm glad you won't be the ones doing it. Humanity won't need to suffer, nor survive your stupidity and masochism.
Even my friends that still claim they'll never be with someone again - that they'll definitely never marry - that they'll never have children.. I kind of feel bad for them to be honest. Humans are dragged along by their feelings - commonly referred to as what they feel in their heart (which is a simplistic way of describing that tight feeling in your chest when you're emotionally committed to a situation).
I feel bad for them, but at the same time I know it's alright. The majority of people who are standoffish on the topic will meet someone. Or realize how they feel about another. The ball will roll, and the feelings of anxiety, confusion, and nonconformity will simply melt away.

There's that group of people, who needlessly lie to themselves - but there is another group that needs addressing forthright. Those who are in denial about the reality that is relationships and the sharing of human emotion. Sometimes it's because they're emotionally broken, like myself, and unlike myself unable to overcome themselves. Other times it's simple stupidity (a word I seem to like lately), a quaint disregard for how the world actually works, and paving their own special individualistic cell in which they must equate irrationally that "My sour one month relationship definitely hurts worse than my Grandfather felt when his wife of sixty years passed away, and his consequent near suicide." That may be an exaggeration, but I think you'd be surprised if you delved a little deeper with some of these people. And it's not just that emotional and logical disconnect that I'm encompassing with the word "stupidity" either.
It's the ones that are more.. Simple than that. The people that simply give up before ever really starting - who've had no real experience in the world and feel they have full comprehension of how it all works.
To those people, I have this to say:
While it's not difficult to comprehend by any means, it's definitely something you can't even begin to understand until you've stood there with your own feet. Talking to a best friend about their broken string of hellish relationships that eventually end in keyed trucks, stalking, and house fires doesn't offer you any actual experience. The fact of the matter is - you don't understand how the whole thing works until it's your truck that got keyed, you that's being stalked, or your house that was set on fire (or your exes truck you keyed and set on fire while he was inside during your stalk-happy-rampage).
Even things as endlessly simplistic as an embrace (note, I'm not saying hug, those close semi-empty things you share with friends, but embrace, I even put it in italics so you'd notice) is going to be beyond your comprehension until you share one. And don't get me wrong, even then you have a ways to go. A lingering kiss, a candlestick dinner, a spur-of-the-moment adventure to nowhere, a sky full of bright stars, a night of passion - they're all beyond you until you're brave enough to put yourself out there. The issue here isn't whether or not they're good enough, it's all on you.
And some advice to you, you who totes imaginary experience and situations, you who speaks as though you know better than those who have, and are going through these moments in your life..
It'll hurt.
I can't say how often, if at all.
Maybe you'll meet Miss/Mister Perfect-for-you right off the bat.
But the entire concept of opening yourself up to someone,
is also giving that person the ability to cause harm.
You may not think you're strong enough for that,
but I honestly think you'd be beyond surprised.

A few moments of genuine happiness,
a few memories of times that were,
are sometimes all it takes to make the hurt worthwhile.

So my fakey wakey shake and bakes, how about putting yourself out there to get stepped on now and then? It's definitely not your whole "No one walks all over me, by Jove," thing so much as your cowardice to start looking. "What if they turn me down?" you ask? "What if they don't like me?" you ask? "What if things are too complicated to work?" you ask, you ask, ask ask ask ask ask.
I say those questions are cowardice as well. They're procrastination, they're fear.
Because what if they don't turn you down? If they do, then you have closure and you're not hung up on it.
What if they do like you? If they don't, oh well, you're an adult now - act like one.
What if things work out well? To assume there's no such thing as complication in a healthy adult relationship is naive and silly. Complication comes in colours from "best friends ex" to "difference in religion". Complication is  easily described as a pillar of failure, or a hurdle on the track. Knock it down, jump over it - it doesn't matter as long as you overcome it. Because when you do, you'll feel much better.
You have no reason not to act like an adult and chase your human desires, so just fucking do it already and stop filling everyone around you with lies - it's annoying them.

Random bizarre rant - end.

soul.

Dear not-diary-but-public-accounting-of-my-life-that-anyone-can-read-bur-probably-doesn't-but-that's-okay-because-I'm-mostly-writing-to-you-to-let-off-steam-or-exorcise-irritating-emotions,

I'm not having any epiphanies of late,
not that I've ever had any at all, certainly not in a manner that would suggest it's odd that I haven't had one recently.. But still, I haven't had any period, and while it's not odd, it's a little annoying. Why? Obviously the reason is because I want to have one, isn't that how it usually works?
I mean, clearly there's some kind of great emotional disconnect and discontent within me at this moment if I'm reaching out for something that I don't usually, if ever, have - that being an epiphany - and I'm more than casually aware of what the problem is. Oh yes, indeed I am, I know every reason why I'm feeling every single feeling that's coursing through my body.

On a separate note, I like to refer to my soul and other peoples souls often in my expressive and documentary writing. I'd like to make it clear, I don't really know what to think of souls or their soulfulness, just that it's an idea I'm constantly reaching back for. I don't believe it's some kind of freudian subtlety in conjuncture with my self-proclaimed atheism (or aforementioned circumstantial disbelief), so much as it's a comfort word that I pull into my word-spillings to define something that has no definition.
I suppose in my hip, and now disreligion, a soul would be a mixture of ones conscience, subconscious understanding, morals, and overall convention of feelings. A soul is the best available word in a metaphorical symphony of boredom and patched-together letters that don't stimulate the proposed (let's underline proposed) reader.

Now, back to the silly things I was talking about before with a little bit of tie-in from the in between.
My soul is feeling uneasy, like my stomach feels queasy, my breath is wheezy, and my mind is breezy. My soul is expressing my hearts, well, heartache. It's giving me a depthy feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that is often times toeing a fine line between sexual stimulation, unceasing depression, feverish guilt, giddy excitement, and overpowering joy to an extent where they're sometimes indistinguishable. And I'm sure it's the bit about unceasing depression.
I'm stuck in a pit of pathetic sadness, like a Jedi who has lost touch with the force, or a first-time convenient store clerk that just got robbed on his first night. It's not unbearable, not the worst pain I've ever felt, not by far - and I realize how young I am. I realize these feelings will all pass, regardless of any clinical aspects.
But it is sadness, and I think the worst part of it all is how undeniably confusing it is, because by definition, I'm just not even certain how to begin describing why I'm sad, or depressed. Reaching back into this post, it has to do with my subconscious understanding, I subconsciously understand why I'm upset - but I can't consciously grasp that idea and work it out.
Honestly, I was going to put a Star Wars reference here - but decided against it because it really didn't flow well, and it felt a little redundant what with my previous Star Wars analogy about a Jedi losing touch with the force. Anywho..

I have these feelings. Feelings that won't go away, and are more than likely unrequited.
I've always liked the term whirlwind romance, defining an event in ones life that is quick, and fleeting. But I think most people forget that there's also an aspect of destruction in this term, as it's quick, and fleeting sure - but it leaves you wondering and confused, picking up bits of yourself that you'd left open to the experience.
And I think these romances are so startling and profound, because they end in odd ways - often without closure (not that you'd want any in this case, it'd probably make things more difficult), and with an abundance of confusion, discontent, and great many what-if's.
However, I think as great as my whirlwind romance was, life could have pulled a few punches this time. Demitri Martin sang in one of his songs about how fishing should be called what it really is - trickin' and killin', and as inelegant as quoting a comedian is, this term feels sufficient.
I was in a state where I wanted to remain as an emotional Fort Knox, because I'm so used to disappointment and a great many adjectives that feel very.. inadequate in describing how I let people treat me in relationships.

Anyway, there's some thoughts and some emotional exorcising for my soul.
Tomorrow we'll tackle people who lie to themselves constantly, and certain corners of humanities foolishness. Or I'll be so completely excited about the new episode of The Guild that I'll forget I even have a blog for another few weeks.

Adios.

A house called Blake.

I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, unsure about what I do or don't think.
Not sure about what I do, don't, should, shouldn't want, think, understand, hope for, believe.
I'm broken, bits and pieces of me lay around me, as I'm a shattered mirror and my soul empties itself out onto the cold marble floor. Why? Why not? Why so, how, who, when, where, what, wendigo?
I don't know what to do, I'm frozen in not-time, not-place, not-anything-at-all. I'm frozen in place, terrified to wiggle waggle a toesy woesy, woefully benign upon the line that ends at no sign, frozen in place while I let my heart race and my feet pace, frozen in place, place, place.
Unsure. I implore a state of decadence upon this very matching of souls, for me to wish, for you to kiss, for a hiss of bliss, a conundrum that blasphemes this silly dream of lost and humdrum. I don't know what you want, I don't know what I have, I don't know, know, know until it's all I can do but sew a quilt full of woe. I can dream, a pleasant little dream of budding blossoms blooming, busy bees buzzing, beautiful birds basking in the glory that is nature and all of it's domain.
I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, and dumb. I imagine this is what it doesn't feel like to smile, but rather to file, file, file away a lifetime of smiling memories, to file, to file and to lock, to lock and let dust settle upon the metal of the file cabinet while I sweat, I sweat a billion drops of would-be dreams for you to chuckle at, to chuckle while I buckle, knees kissing the ground.
I feel numb.
Like I can't breathe, no matter how much my lungs heave, no matter how much my soul grieves, my heart believes my lungs can't breathe, and so it's like I can't breathe, like I can't breathe, breathe, breathe, or weave a basket of tragic dividend so unclear it tricks and stutters until the project hits a dead end.
If my soul could scritch scratch on the back of a government building, it'd say it exists, and then request validation by form number number number. To get this and engrave it into lumber, and wake great massive number man from his humble slumber - he clicks, he clacks, he wiggity wacks the clicker clackers until it's found that I legally have no validity to life. I capsize, I capsize and twist myself into discombobulated rapture, and it's my own self I seek to capture, my validity, my validity. I don't know what it is I can't, what I won't, what I shouldn't and couldn't.
But I want to try. How many roads must a man walk down until he realizes that cliche can be risqué, yet he lets himself trip and stumble along a mass confusion of what-if's, what-if's.

I cling, I cling to off-chance, and indecisive gratification of radical determination. But what's the point, what's the point of chasing after something that probably isn't there? I won't know until I've tripped, and fallen, been dragged through mud and blood, to find where I stand a time from now that isn't now.
A separation of realization and globalization.
My heart and mind, my faith so different,
my heart and mind made available.
Though broken, and often unwaking.
I used to live in a house on Blake street, it was nice.

I like that we're not the same.

I don't want to be a misread label,
or succumb to your pretentious endeavor to understand humanity.
It's not that I misunderstand you, because I do understand,
not only do I understand, I accept and embrace.
It's not as if I'm going to object your sense of self,
what makes you so truly and utterly.. you.

I don't see you as unable to grasp reality,
or speaking to imaginary friends.
In fact, the simple act of thinking I see you that way..
Isn't that intolerance in and of itself?
To make a wildly generalistic assumption about my personality,
without so much as consulting me about it for a second?
Way to read into things that aren't there, right?

What I believe or don't,
if I don't bother myself with it then why do you?
Not that I mind you expressing your feelings,
I do encourage that.
Since it's not like I'm saying "He doesn't exist"
I suppose I still tend to fall under an agnostic
pretense, and maybe that's more attractive?
I think science is fantastic and all that, but it's
impossible to disprove anything when the universe is
so vast a place that things could exist beyond the
comprehension of said science.
Adopting the title of atheist?
It's not a title or anything, it's not an evil cloud
burying itself within my eternally sinister soul.
It's not like I'm saying it's impossible,
it's just that because my life is my life,
I've come to not believe.
You can call it circumstantial disbelief if you want,
that's a-ok. Others call it atheism, that's fine too.

But in the end, it's just that I don't believe.
Between reasons for it, and whatever else, I just don't.
Maybe someday my life will change and I will find faith again,
who knows what's in store for them?

But don't label me.
Don't label anything.
Don't say all atheists are pricks because one time there was one
shouting about how your savior didn't exist and Mary wasn't a virgin.
That guy was a prick, yes.
But don't label us when there are christians picketing soldiers burials.
Don't label us when there are muslims blowing up buildings.
Don't label us when there are catholics molesting children.
Don't label for a group, but label for a man.

If here I stand, and tell you that your whole life, your faith, your everything
were completely false and truly disgusting. Then label me as a prick, and intolerant.

But here I do stand. Accepting you, as I want to be accepted in return.
We don't believe the same things, I can't help what I don't believe.
Sometimes I'd like to believe, but I cannot seem to make that step.
Sometimes I envy you for believing when sometimes I'd like to think I try.
But I don't believe. Whether you like that or not, that's how it is.
No one is similar, and religion should never be a disconnect between people.

You and I should be connected by our differences.
We should learn from one another, and rejoice.
But we won't, because you think things about me,
things that aren't true. Just as people labeled
similarly to myself treat you.
But don't label groups as you do individuals.

I'm sorry we're not the same colour.
I'm sorry we don't have the same eyes,
the same nose,
the same teeth,
the same hair,
the same fingers,
the same toes,
the same DNA,
I'm sorry I don't think the way you do.
But I like you for all those differences.
I like learning about you,
I like your eyes that aren't mine,
your nose that isn't mine,
your teeth that aren't mine,
your hair that isn't mine,
your fingers that aren't mine,
your toes that aren't mine,
your DNA that isn't mine,
I like every single one of the thoughts
and opinions that we don't share.
I like that you give me perspective as a human being,
and make me consider things that I otherwise would not.

I like that we're different,
and I wouldn't have it any other way.

rival of relevance.

I don't want a procedural drowning. Or a relative kaleidoscope of lobotomies enacted upon this noggin.
However I feel like I am a walking, talking, breathing, coughing lobotomy of self and wealth of health.
An ulcer of attentive emotion, waiting to send ripples of pain moaning through your body.

Fascism is a schism of realism. Gristle bristle missile whistle tinsel etc.
Goodnight world. Thank you for a little abuse now and then. It gives respective. Goodnight.

the nether of a feather, as you don't read on right?

anxiety attacks me, I don't know what I'd do with with without it.
it keeps me aware of my werebear in yonder lair or some shit, I don't know.

what if I dreamed? not nightmare'd, but dreamt normally like others do.
saw the kind of things most others see, but through my own eyes,
brilliant white weddings in warm green snow atop a floating islet of steel,
instead of a torn-tattered-barbed suckerpunch in the lung that has me
vomiting flicks and flakes of steel all over some organic mess that is
probably a clever analogy for my sense of self or something.
who knows, my nightmares get weird and fucked up, and the doctors I've
seen say it's all PTSD, anxiety, and depression. which I typically
refuse medication for constantly, because why would I accept medication
from someone that's obviously heavily medicated themselves?

taking a sidebar, might I say that psychiatrists do need to have life
experience as a requirement, but do they need to self test the product?

anyway, this isn't to say I never ever have good dreams. hell, in the
past few weeks I've had two or three, which is impressive.
two of them ended in a soul-warming kiss, which still make me feel
good inside to some extent you know? you know, you know?
well maybe you don't, or do know, but that's not important anyway.

sure I'm depressed right now.
actually I was depressed before too, and stressed, and oppressed and
other -essed's.

sure I'm depressed.
but since I was depressed before, this is recurring. I have a couple of
new reasons to be so, but that's not all that important I don't think.
well.. it is important to me, but not for negative reasons I guess.

wells are truly terrifying, aren't they? maybe not as you'd think,
but say you could see what I do right now, maybe you'd agree? maybe not.
I guarantee this post isn't going to have much for anyone that's trying
for any semblance of sanity. just the opposite, in fact, my dear Watsoroo.

but really, I want to dream like dreams that are described to me. I want
to wake up with more smiles than sighs.

I want optimism, I've never really had that.
well, I have.. but not really when it counts.
I'm plenty optimistic when I'm happy, content.
otherwise I'm pessimistic and cynical,
I'm engrossed in the worst possible scenario,
the realistically worst possible scenario.
I live and breathe it, because when things
can go wrong, they tend to go wrong, all the way.

I'm scared right now, because I don't know if I
should be optimistic or pessimistic, if I have
any reason to be anything other than whatever I must.
I'm scared right now, because I think it's the normal
emotion anyone else would use to handle this situation.
this situation being everything, everything bearing over
me, and almost asking for what I do hang onto for happiness.

I'm pathetic, I know so. I expect happiness to dry up, and
when it does I dwell on every single reason why. not just the
obvious reasons, but EVERYTHING that would make me unhappy,
and that makes me moreso, and probably the reason I'm depressed.
I could fix this. I am fixing this. I am stronger than I think.
or so I'd like to think, right?
right, I'd like to think that.
I'm sad about things that happened up to three years ago,
six years, seven years, eight years. etc.
because dad never taught me what you do after you hold it in.
probably because dad didn't know what to do next either.
I think I feel more comfortable typing this knowing that the
people I wouldn't want to read this, won't. anyone that would,
probably won't, probably gave up partway through. partway is nice.
I like partway.
actually I'd give up partway too. partway being at the beginning.
if you read this far, you must really like me.
how's that feel? to know you like me enough to read this far.
must feel.. life confirming somehow? I wouldn't know, but I
want my nonsleeping dreams to come true.
can you do that, mister/miss-reader-person?
doubt it. you don't even know a fraction of my dreams.
or the ones I most want to come true. even a little.

but one dream is, I want to smile, right now.
simple enough, I think.

Luckless for now

Pfffwhat the fuck?
Time for an exorcism of emotion. I think at some point I'll go through this blog and reclaim random groups of words for lyrics, if I'm lucky. We'll see, we'll see, we'll see, right? I've been thinking a lot today, a lot about a lot of things.
Like.. Why I'm depressed. Sure, the past few days have sucked, and felt pretty shitty. But I don't know why I'm THIS depressed about it. Not that those things aren't worth this amount of depression or anything like that, just that.. I haven't felt this depressed in a while, and I was thinking there should be more to it than just the past couple of days.
And I finally realized that it's just shit catching up to me. Even the stupid crap from a year ago that sucked, I held back those feelings and let them mould a statue of discontent within me, and over the past couple of days that statue has cracked and crumbled into rubble. I'm even letting myself get upset over crap that happened up to three years ago, how stupid is that? I was sure I was over that shit.
But it seems I'm not, if I'm still upset over it I must not be. I'd like to be though, so I'm going to work on myself. I can't just sit back and let everyone else live their life while I let mine hold me back. I'm not about to toss around foolish words about "reinventing myself" etc like most people do, because I like who I am. I'm not stupid or fickle enough to throw away what makes me, me.
But I'm going to work through my personal pit of shit until it's all cleaned up and taken care of. I'm going to reduce the baggage my soul heaves about, until I can breathe freely.

I don't know what else to put in this blog.. But I hope things change soon, I hope I get what little luck I had a week ago back in hand sometime in the near future.
Because I was lucky a week ago. Very much so.

We'll see.

Eyes that don't cry, scribbled on a thousand pages.
Sometimes wondering if it'd better if this heart would stop, if it'd be better to march autonomously through life without smile or frown.
Proof of my existence has already been wiped from that notebook, and it hurts a little. I'm confused and cautious, my expression must be carefully blank.

Breathing cold air is best after all, I tell myself, as I fidget in a snowy field. A scene that runs rampant through my idle mind, as I click clack cluck my way through a shitty cellphone diary, and empty out all my thoughts there so I don't have to carry them around.
Yet I can't seem to empty myself to match how empty I feel, no matter how many words are clicked, clacked, or even clucked. I can't rid myself of this heart that feels so stupidly whenever I dare to breathe tropically.
I hate this, right? This not heartache, or whatever it is. Whatever it needs to be.

Oh if my heart could write songs so blankly, so I could wrap my fingers around a fretboard and flitter flutter out words that might help empty my soul of it's perpetual need to emote.
I want to express myself fully. I want to stand in front of a crowd so massive and overtaking that I can't even consider it human. To let my nervousness melt before a buzzing of humanity, an idea that appeals to me while one on one interviews and small gatherings terrify me.
Rippling gunshots through suicidal slashers, my heart was never really whole with all the dazed father figures, all the intoxicated blisters of transistors. I don't know how to pour every syllable of myself out onto a sheet of paper, or a box of internet. I just know that I want to try try try try try try try to type my way out of a lonely coma.
Coma, coma coma coma, coma. I wonder if the comatose feel.
I'd take physically comatose over emotionally comatose any day, I'd like to think. But I have no way of knowing that's true.

Nightmares cannot be expressed.

Subtlety is a way of life almost, sometimes always almost. I don't know what to do, because my insecurity, my fear is gripping me. It squeezes my throat shut, and leaves me to gasp in wonderment what anything is supposed to be. Should I crawl back into an emotional coma, or try to fight it out this time? Does it matter? Will it matter? Who cares.

I want to be a robot, living life autonomously.

I want, I want, I want life.

I'm not sure if two weeks is enough to feel this way, or if just opening my heart up to someone for two weeks is what's making me this scared and hopeful, and unsure.
But I think this is what I get, for being me.
Maybe it's life's way of saying "This is what you get, for shutting me out for so long. Grow up."

At least when you move on, I'll know it's possible.
It's nice to have some forewarning.

My brain keeps buzzing, I'm just trying to empty it all out onto this thing. I don't really know what's what, or what isn't what. I wish I had money for college, but I don't really want to go. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I don't really know what I want from life anymore, actually. Well, I do..

I wish I could express myself.
Through art, through music, through you.
I'll figure myself out somehow, right?
Or will I just keep click, clack, clucking my way through nonsensicals and hope it ends somewhere not as lonely as at feels right now.

We'll see.

Pseudo-blogging.

Perpetual writers block.

What makes a blog good? Just filling it with bits and pieces of yourself until it's a morbid stew of thought and rot? Purveying opinion whether it's wise or not? Shelling out your very identity to an unimaginable number of strangers, despite the fact that the number of people that will likely read any of it may be counted on one hand?
What makes a good blog. Blog good. Chopped liver.

Hi ho silver, affronting society with a chest so bare, a glare so rare.
Religion is touchy, like politics.

I have a judgmental friend or two.

I think I would be more into this blog thing if it were more like a chronicling of adventures, which I'm not having too many of. Like discussing day to day goings on in Rome, cuisine in Moscow, the city lights of Tokyo kinda thing.

What if I had a job this time next week? Three months of unemployment is definitely three months too many, and I have to have a job by the end of the month. Something working with computers, selling technological doohickies, or writing would be best, but I'm settling for a department store jockey, or if that doesn't work out, a fast food peon.

I aim to go to a technical school to either study graphic design or something technical. I don't have enough talent in cooking or music to make it out to those directions, although I could work in a studio if I set my mind to it. But that's a goal that remains further off if it ever comes to fruition at all.

And yet again, my blog succeeds in becoming a unneccessary jumble of grumbling gloopity boop.
Whatever shall I do about this? I don't think I'll do anything, I think I'll just bear with it, and while I may not be chronicling super-exciting-foreign adventures, I can temporarily make due with chronicling a pseudo-neurotic mess of pseudo-intelligent garbage. Pseudo-ly.

PS, at least ninety percent of the time I name the blog after I finish writing it.

PPS, at least 90% of the time I type out words instead of using the #'s.

PPPS, post post post script seems a little redundantly pre-stuttered.

I'm romping your eyes.

A hoarse source of divorce between man and minx,
sly and devious is the truncheon of liver and sliver
waver the receiver of your seething knuckle
and only under the force of confusion, do you buckle.

superficial hair follicles,
sugar-free pear popsicles,
lemon drop, head flop.

I actually don't know what I'm writing at all, I have no intention of writing anything that has any semblance of clairvoyance, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Sometimes when I type one word over and over and over and over and over again my fingers are like whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa.
By the way, I've seen it spelled whoa, and woah, but Google thinks whoa is the only one of the two that's spelled correctly.
And apparently popsicles isn't spelled correctly unless it's capitalized, possibly because of branding, but there are many brand x popsicles whereas that would mean a popsicle has obtained it's own definition right? I bet if I looked it up in the dictionary, which I won't because I don't want to, it'd be something along the lines of a fruit juice base with extra sugar and artificial flavourings, frozen on a stick.
Sticks and penises are often related in similar jokes.
And a lot of people draw stick figures, even the most talented artists.

Word romped.
Good mood, and whatnot.

but before I sleep.

love. sukisukisukisukisukisuki. suki, love; kisu, kiss.
I was thinking about the past for a couple of days,
and got to thinking about ex girlfriends. Not all of them,
just the ones who left the biggest impression.
What are they doing right now?
Does it matter what they're doing?
Would I care if they're with someone?
Is that someone better than I am?
Why did things end?
Stupidity, people moving, lack of love,
lack of progression, lack of intelligence
(see "stupidity").
I like to say I have no regrets, but what's a
"soul" but a composition of memories, love,
and regrets?
To live without regrets, see oxymoron, see
how not to live, see naivety, see "stupidity".
What would I do given a second chance?
For her, freeze.
For her, be joyful.
For her, nothing.
For her, leave things as are.
For her, genuinely unsure..
For her, breathe.
Maybe I'd accept a second chance for some
of the people from my past. To answer what
was left sitting in the stagnant air. To
understand the meaning of frailty.
To open ones eyes.

Going back, does it really matter?
Whether they're gone, married, broken,
a dear friend, naive, or blind, is
looking back ever better than looking
ahead?

Do I have regrets..?
Yes, and no.
Every big decision and event,
I do not regret.
I have said I Love You,
one, two, three, four, five, six times.
It was honest.

The first time was a short, but extremely
intense connection. It was fleeting, yet
still clings to me. It was pure. It was
unequivocal.
The first love was like lighting a match
for the very first time. The sound, the
instantaneous reaction and flame, and
the smell that lingers moments after
it goes out.
Even when things went wrong, they felt
right. It was odd, it was crazy, it
was completely frightening.

The second time was sweet, shy, drawn
out, and eventually we were pushed
apart before we really got the chance
to hold on.

The third time was nostalgic. It was
confusing. It was brilliant. It was
lonely. And it ended in a fire of
her own stupidity, devouring a
valuable friendship and breaking
many things in the process.

The fourth time was short and sweet,
but everlastingly passionate and
meaningful to this day.

The fifth time.. Could have overwhelmed
the first time. In the end it was unrequited.
Given time and understanding, it could have
worked. We both knew it, but it slipped away.
Every time we talked afterwards the coals
threatened to catch fire again, so not even
the friendship could be salvaged with as
much space locked between us.

The most recent time was silly. Blind.
It didn't quite manifest til the end.
Someone I still care for, and would
gladly consider again sometime.. I think.
The most recent one could have worked
easily in even slightly different circumstances.
But who knows?

sukisuki.
I don't even know why I typed half of this.
I could have gladly ended it much earlier.

night now.

typety type type type.

I wanted to write something,
but I don't quite remember what.
Today I watched Bakemonogatari,
a contemporary fairytale,
it was extremely dark and in
the end it left me a little..

..distressed?

I've been thinking about emotional ticks.
What annoys people, what brings them together,
little rituals performed regularly no matter what.

Like.. my cat died a while back, yet every time
I go downstairs I check the window to see if he's home.
It doesn't feel crummy anymore.. It's just something I
do.. Actually, someone put his collar on the door so the
bell would jingle whenever someone turned the nob or
opened or closed the door itself.
I was annoyed by that.
Or like, whenever I'm driving, I tighten up a little
whenever I see Toyota Corolla's. And I check almost
every single white car for a bumper sticker.
I check yellow cars for cracks in their back windshield.
Black ford minivans with no hubcaps.
Things that make me cringe usually.

People are weak, unforgiving, stupid, and overemotional.
We wrap ourselves in our own problems, and some of us
reach out to whoever hoping for help. While others, like
myself, don't really bother most of the time, so that
when one of those who needs help comes, they become
irrationally hurt by things that weren't said or intended,
and run before realizing the situation they were just in.

But whatever, and stuff.
Deep down I have tons to say, but no words to say them with.
I could go on for hours, coughing up random bits of information
like I usually do with this blog until I find my point. But I'm
tired, and I don't really feel any sense of obligation to this
digital sounding board.

I'll just sleep and stuff.

don't be alone with your thoughts

up all night afraid
solitary thoughts cry wolf
just melt into sleep

untitled rash!

sour eyes stare,
dreaming of black ooze
sick as the haze,
inspired to be mired

myriads of pyramids
the dead drag, and drag
to schlep carcinoma
and slave over a grave
existence wavers

wretched soliloquy
arrogant dream of me
what i need to see,
for my heart to be.

I wrote that stuff at my best friends house, because we were writing and stuff, and sometimes I do enjoy working with words. I also like how "wordsmith" looks and sounds, but I would hate people that describe themselves as one. I don't know why that's important. Probably because it's not.
I just listened to Coldplays Parachutes album from start to finish, and did a lot of clickity clacketing. Also, I threw up a couple of times. Hurray for the flu.
I didn't even finish the words up there. I just threw up something unfinished because I don't know if I care anymore, which may be the aching fever I have, but I won't know for sure until I get better.

You know what I used to be good at? I mean, I never ever did it, but in the rare situations when I had to.. I used to be amazing with words. I used to be straight forward, confident, and I used to manage to say the perfect thing. Now I can't help but stumble over my broken sentences, and hope no one reads most of them despite me slapping them on the internet. But I guess that's further testimonial to the whole, I don't care anymore, routine.

You know what else I realized? I'll never really know what I think about myself, because I'm usually trying to look in on myself from other peoples perspectives. And what do I have going for me? I'm okay looking, tall, smart ish. Et cetera. I wouldn't say I have any particularly amazing talents, save for my undying supply of cynicism and sarcasm.
I guess I'm great in relationships, until they're over and I become the absolute ass that needs to distance himself from any and all emotion. I'm awesome at being there for people, but I often turn around and get sick of how most everyone else tries to express themselves while I'm being knowingly hypocritical.
If I took stock of my personality right now, I'd say I'm a contradiction. I know I'm wonderful with people, but I hate people. I can more or less be friends with most anyone I meet, but since I hate people, I don't ever do that. Over the past few years I've gone from a completely emotionally shut down person, to a very very open person that still shuts his emotions away for that special little cold day in whatever circle of hell is saved for atheists.
I guess overall, I'm an asshole who's cynical, egotistical, and semi narcissistic. And while I'd hate to say I'm always right and most other people are wrong, I know deep down that often I am right, just horribly blunt about it and so no one wants to hear it. But in contradiction, I know when to melt like butter. I can be a fantastic friend, a protective whatever the hell, etc. And I know I'm a damn good boyfriend, which seems to be on my mind for six of six reasons right now. Not that my ability to be a boyfriend is in question, I've just found myself asking that odd question, what with a third of my friends being in breakups, another third finding new love, and the rest either fighting with their "significant" other or bragging about the "single life".

Blah blah blahooie.
There's not much out there for me to commentate on. I'm bored. I'm sick as hell. Half alive even. But I'm alright. Also, last week at the grocery store when I was getting cough syrup before I left from Spokane to Yakima, I got a lovely girls phone number and am now curious if the "good boyfriend" routine covers possible future relationships, seeing as how I really don't feel like going out to my car and finding the damn receipt she wrote her number on.
Blah blah.
I'm going to crash bandicoot now.

pip pip.

here's some advice no one will ever really want.

shit sucks. it's unavoidable, and we can't magic it away like they do in all those fancy fairy tales you've filled your head with. my inner cynic (a fancy way of just saying, me) feels as though it'd be constructive to point out that it's what people do. they walk up, they smile, turn a pretty conversation, they pull your heart from your chest and walk off. the cynic says "typical", it's the typical turn out, the standard position, the regular occurrence.

the romantic in me agrees.
but the romantic in me goes on to say, duh. because the romantic believes in that lovey dovey crap where you'll find someone you can actually make it with, and if you deal with a sour patch kid now and then and let it tear you down, then there'll be nothing left but a hollow shell when you meet the important one.
the romantic says some random blah blah blah crap for a bit.
then it summarizes.
"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all." as Samuel Butler is always quoted in most any medium today definitely has something to do with my point.
you'll get dragged through the mud.
you'll eat every weed out of the garden.
you'll end and end and end and end again.
you'll feel empty, hopeless, broken, sick.
then you'll meet someone new.

you'll meet someone, and be like "OH!"
nothing will happen with this person.
but it'll be comforting that they exist.

and then you'll meet someone else.
and they'll make you say "OH OH!"
and love will happen.

and the cynic says, love will happen until you're in the mud, eating weeds from a dreary heartbreaking garden scene. and the romantic says, only until it matters.

and the cynic says goodnight, right?
righto.

it's today, is it?

It's March 23rd.
As I type these words, it's eight minutes to midnight.
And now, as I continue to type, it's an hour and thirty six minutes past.
It's March 24th.

Things happen fast in reality, whether it's rational or even realistic to begin with.
A monotone can lead to a shoutodrome, a hollow palindrome of human emotion.
An empty tank, wallet, heart generally means an empty solution, or lack thereof solid.
We sit on top of the world, and never look down. Another human condition is to conditionalize human nature, to let normal behaviour bleed out as though it were a thing of melodrama.
We let the ocean waves wash over our dirty shitty souls, we let kind strangers with hidden agendas scrub us clean of our emotional oil spill, we let, we let, we let and continue to let until all that is left is sand carved with blood. Sing songy children, pritty polly burnin a lil olly in my olly wolly wocket, as whatever may or may not validate my emotions walks past my cubicle of worthlessness.
blah blah blah, ribbit, ribeye steaks stare down at me in a face of meat, click click, meat grinder, face eaten. uncontrollable sobsadists rob sorrow of it's very own tomorrow, and we click clack tick tock plonk about with our giant hammers, smashing thousand dollar pocket watches on the granite tears of civilization.
rubik's cube, rubik's cube, in my hand.
rubik was a kind man, a man of puzzles, until his family was murdered by the village people. rubik grew teeth ever sharper, let his bones split and splinter, disfiguring him ever so. rubik rubik, rubik the kibur.

rambunctiousness is the spice of never ever waver land. sitting on my spleen.
it's now an hour and fourty seven minutes past.

Things happen fast. Your life is off a little, but you have a plan. Simple requests pave the way to a better tomorrow, and yet a few sour words break the pavement. And you're left wide awake, with shit for soul, and grit to roll.

I realize I?

sleep is broken. I anticipate the worst, and make anticipation feel a fool of a third wheel on fire. the world is a world is a child labour law gone wrong. spindly spindle the spindled grendel. Yig Yog Cthuluectatious.
I'm going to twirl you, dip you, bring you close, as we dance upon the underside of a floating mountain, a submerged glacier, a stealth bomber. fading away is reality, and suffocating us is realty. a goat man is trying to sell us a neighborhood, every house looks identical; grey, little yard, picket fence, two stories, two car garage on the right, back yard. a goat man is chewing hay while he bleats about the killer green we'd be making on rent. then he relieves himself of decency and charges off into the red fog.
and yet we're still dancing.

I'm a child. You're a child.
You make bad decisions,
and you were mine.

I'm a fool. You're a tool.
You play in a pretentious sandbox of stereotypes and cliches,
and I fell for it.

Yet I suppose not all is lost, since none of you know who I talk about, ever. Could it be past the past? Or presently present? Or neither, since it's more likely I'm just writing to write, right?
A brain dead ogre, click clacking away about flesh and love,
never truly attuned with the latter I suppose?

And now I slip into the real nonsense.

Once the cord is cut, the severity of the sever is severe. I leave it cut, unintentionally, because every time I go to replace the cord, I self sabotage. Maybe it's true, you can't be friends with people you've been close to. Maybe it's true, because no one wants to admit it is, and would rather dismiss it as a silly cliche and be done with it.
I'm going to sell my soul to the first souleater that ever did eat souls. I'm going to stand at the foot of the mountain of madness, and scream insanely. I'm going to melt down every bone in my body, and ooze around forebodingly.
I'm going to die a dead man, if I don't find you.

As a blogger I suppose I have ADD.

But anyway, whatever this started and ended as, I'm going to find the right one, and lose her.
Then maybe five years later, after she's slept with many others, she might come back, and tell me her tale. Of course then I won't want anything to do with her, because the right-er one will come along and sweep me off my feet (as men so enjoy, amirite?)

Have a happy Billie Holiday.

corporeal punishment.

the best beginning is a wonderful end. as resilience explodes, exhaling an infinite amount of burning pedals, and we find beauty crawling beneath the flesh in the ultimatum.
a turn for the melodramatic, I twist around for you. several assume this broken nature is their cause and mess, but won't realize it's not, nor could they possibly understand why.
so blinded, only the track stretches before them. and their track consists of me chasing after them.
reality is a bitter thing. I'm a lesser man, completely taken with the concept and practice of humanity. I fill myself full of memory's bitter negativity, and I leak spite and hatred unto everyone I ever cared for.
lungs collapse. fingers bleed.
you're naive, stupid, and annoying.
ignorant, arrogant, and demoralizing.
I hate you,
I hate you,
yet I have you.

and your soul isn't fit to be litter.

the return.

watching you through broken glass,
you're just standing there, not a care in the world,
meanwhile every bone of mine is fractured and broken.
you strut a campaign of chaos and discord,
my lungs collapse and my back is punctured,
I'm watching you through broken glass, red.

your kerosene coated lips whisper, whisper, whisper fire
my toes erupt in flame, fury devouring me one desperate inch at a time
black parts, ruby teeth stare me down as I finally have your attention.
I swallow my tongue, and aneurysm until it hits my heart
my heart that fountains blood.

angel of death, trumpets blaring, body blazing.
you explode in devil smoke,
sweat tears me from sleep.

wonderment.

I wonder what kind of man it takes to write an episode of Zack & Cody, Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, etc etc, and actually feel accomplished? Making Miley Cyrus shout in overacted gibberish about how wickedly awesomely sweet something is, isn't my idea of talent at all.

That's all.

unrelated title, generically labeled #4.

drain pipe love storm,
gutter romance,
manhole man whore.

flushing our emotions down the drain
letting them bubble in waste.
punch drunk, coughing up blood
leaking red onto the pavement.

bleeding, branching colour into a black and white nothing
it twists and turns, congealing into an urban art form.
ignorance floats along a river of sin,
it's called the new york city effect,
washing a generation of hell down a street.

the sewers carry more of our past than history books,
the streets are littered with more art than the louvre.
and we're slaves to this high contrast kind of love,
the streetlights fake a caring glow over the city,
the broken bottles punctuate an existence of pity.

and the drain pipes shake,
during a love storm.

uh oh! spaghettioeth.

a piece of this soul, rinsing down an empty drain.
I swivel, left and right, to charm you tonight
to sweep you off your feet,
and allow this photorealistic dream to wash over me
the idea of beauty, so still framed.

a piece of this memory, washing up on the beach,
I dig my toes in, curling them around warm sand,
rocking under luna, the tide closes in on me
and I sway, left and right, looking for light.

breathing, breathing, breathing deep
sighing so literally

and yet I wake on this floor waxer.
uh oh.

nonsensicals

the state of things, as they are.

I live in a world made of colourvomit, inspired by kaleidoscopes designed by the deranged. My reality is that of a flat tire that allows a wheel to screech and scrape along a street until it fizzles and sparks into chemical absurdity.
I live in a world where a boy can cry baby in a voice that denounces puberty, and will be sad to see said puberty come to pass, and be loved by millions. Where a band that actually uses the line "fuckin' magnets.. how do they work?", simultaneously denouncing science as a whole (especially those dastardly bits that are proven fact, damn them!) and are still revered as a whole. Where a woman can get into shitty clothes, pretend to sing, and be an overall bad role model in general, can be a top selling artist and loved by everyone from twelve year old girls to fifty year old soccer moms.
I live in this world, every day. and honestly, what choice do I have? it's not like I can make the best of a bad situation, because the best of this situation would be the same suicidal tendencies that's held my generation in such an unrelenting deathgrip. you know, all those poor souls with typical loving families, buying them cars on their sixteenth birthdays and getting dumped by their first boy/girlfriend?

I have the unusually bad habit of having absolutely no point when I'm talking, or perhaps it's not unusual, it may just be annoying.
but so often am I being force fed such an unconditional, and totally caring disposition, a facade I'm required to carry on my shoulders on a day to day basis. I'm required to listen to foolishness, and then in turn complain about my foolishness, and somehow try to make mine seem more serious when it probably isn't. something else about the human condition.

the human condition.
conditioning humans since creation, or perhaps evolution?
actually, for all of those religious nuts out there, who somehow think it's possible that we descended from Adam and Eve, two white people in a garden, I'd like to point out that if God is truly almighty.. well couldn't he just orchestrate evolution singlehandedly?
and keep in mind, it really isn't "His" book. it's yours. you wrote it, I think it's time you took responsibility, because calling it his book is one of the many, many reasons zealots are bombing buildings and parks. why can't we all just accept that humanity is fucked and broken?

actually, no, humanity isn't fucked and broken. it's curse is surviving, growing, and learning. we survive, so we grow, and we grow and grow until knowledge is second nature. human culture is so unbelievably varied, that I truly don't think we'll be terribly surprised when we find life in space.
just because chances are, we're probably not as fucked up as they are, or they're just as fucked up. or they'll enslave us, which really isn't that big of a deal because we're just busy doing it to each other anyway.
also, I should point out that there were many many many many white slaves, and I'm sure a lot of white slavery more or less predates the mass African exodus stateside. so stop being mad at us, because a lot of our ancestors didn't enslave you, and fact is a lot of us were descended from slaves too.
etc.

I'm babbling, again.

damn, I do believe I'm getting good at the nonsensicals.

sleep. an irrational beast that depends on the lack of activity, so that one might slip into their temporary off state. it's to "recharge your batteries", so to speak. a way to slowly push your thoughts from the, usually, more comfortable state of consciousness, to the unknown and forgetful existence of the unconscious.
sometimes you aren't ready to let your thoughts slip away, and you're stuck til four in the morning every morning, for a week.

in the first person, I wonder why this is? maybe I'm afraid of what my mind will remember on its own? bubbling with memories best forgotten, while I try to entertain the idea that I'm in control. maybe, my subconsciousness is tired of numbing itself to my common nightmares?
oh, mind of mine, lacking rational matter, and so on.

there are faces and memories best forgotten, both happy and sad.
maybe the mind doesn't want the inevitable darkness to close in?
that may be too bad though.
I turned off my night light sixteen years ago,
and haven't missed it since I was three years old.

please let me drift off to nothing.
let me say goodnight this morning.
let me close these doors,
watching the little red car turn left at the end of the street.
close these eyes,
remembering every moment of discomfort and discontent.
close this heart,
like I should remember, or keep these things close.

in all honestly, I keep very little close to me.
it's a coping mechanism that was passed onto me;
as in its easier to cope when there's next to nothing there.
or something.

good time.

junk.

I'm home, again.
I promised to tell you something every day, but I continue to fail.
It's not that I don't have a million and one things fighting for supremacy in my head, because I don't (but I do have plenty), it's just that when I stick these letters together, paste these words into sentences.. I feel like giving up, because what's the point?
Nothing so depressed as "No one reads this anyway," etc. Because I don't really care if anyone reads this, I just don't know what I'm writing. Philosophically speaking, what does this really accomplish? Am I embellishing myself? Imparting a piece of my soul unto the void of networked computers, to serve the purpose that is null.
Maybe I'm just stretching my proverbial wings, getting a feel for the wind before I take flight? I suppose that's also how I should feel every time I do a major scale on my guitar or bass. Every time I draw a circle on a piece of paper. Thaw the meat for the main course. Lay the base layer for the painting. Frame the shot. Run the drill. Sand the wood. Et cetera, et cetera.
So much prep goes into everything, every window into my soul, your soul, everyones soul. Before you really know what's on the other side, you have to clean the window.

I promised to tell you a story, a thought, paint you a wordy picture that matters naught. And I haven't been, not because I don't believe there's a point - because I honestly couldn't care less if there is a point or not - but maybe it's because my wings have been stretched too thin lately. I stretch, I stretch, I stretch, I stretch until a muscle spasms and retracts, missing my opportunity to fly.
But it's at this point I feel like jumping anyway. Not to a gruesome death, to end this tragedy of missed time and opportunity. But to a reality I can grip in my hands. Something tangible, to show everyone.

Maybe I can write a book. Write a song. Creating beautiful art.
Well, no.
But I can control my stretching, and continue leading all of nobody on confusing wordtrips.

Sigh, and junk.

Damn television.

We're stuck in a perpetual hell of reality television, there's no way out. We're going to have whether or not people can sing, dance, or if they have talent, bad children, ill advised pregnancy, and the like - shoved down our throats day by day.
Jersey Shore, WWE, American Idol (and other iterations therein), Nanny 911 (and other iterations therein), Survivor hybrids, Fear Factor hybrids, Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, Rock of Love, The Bachelor, Flavor of Love, and the list just goes on, and on, and on, and on.
It's why I don't see the necessity in watching TV.

Sure there's Bones, House, the original Scrubs, The Office (usually), The Simpsons, and a ton of good shows. But they're not surviving.

Ghosthunters, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila 1 (and 2), The Apprentice, The Bachelorette, Biggest Loser, Big Brother, The Next Food Network Star, The Surreal Life, So You Think You Can Dance, Who's Your Daddy?

Every day smart, intelligent shows are getting cancelled, because one of two (more than likely) reasons.
1. The average viewers intelligence is now only able to comprehend exaggerated, dramatized real life situations.
OR
2. The average network executive believes 1 wholeheartedly, regardless of whether it's true or not.
OR
3. It's both. There has to be one more than two, I decided just now.

The Simple Life, Rock the Cradle, Blind Date, Food Detectives, Punk'd, Raising Sextuplets, Temptation Island, Whale Wars.

Let me take a second to tell you about Whale Wars.
It's a show where animal rights activists (in my opinion, terrorists) attack whaling ships to discourage their actions. For example, they use chemicals to ruin any and all whale meat the ship may have gathered (which seems extremely contradictive to the cause, because regardless of who that meat would feed, rich or poor, you ruined food that would've fed someone. Now the whale has died for absolutely no reason). They're not attacking rich people, killing baby seals for sport, they're attacking the average Joe, whose only crime is trying to feed their family. They get paid for the equivalent of large scale fishing (I should add that fishermen don't get abused nearly as much, and you could argue that a lot more cruelty goes into some forms of fishing), which puts money in the bank, which puts food on the table.
Random tangent, but that show pisses me off. Animal rights activists, and a portion of vegans, I'm all for throwing them in with the animals they're trying to save. Idiots.



The point I'm trying to put across is that network executives are ruining television. In the 90s, MTV was MUSIC Television. Music videos, music related shows, Beevis and Butthead. Now you're lucky to get half hour of music on MTV2. It's all bullshit shows that promote ignorance and limited awareness.

But whatever, I can look up music online. No super special shows got cancelled that couldn't be covered virally. But now it's spreading. Sci Fi was a good channel. Was, being the keyword.
They put Bonnie Hammer and Dave Howe in charge, two slack jawed, ignorant reality TV jockeys cruising for ratings that aren't there.
They changed the logo. They changed the name from Sci Fi to SyFy. They torched a bunch of good ideas. Now they're walking down the path that was MTV.
Cancelling great shows left or right, pissing off their fans with their decisions. Completely misunderstanding the entire basis that the network is based on. Or even the definition of Science Fiction. That's right, Science Fiction, bitch - not fantasy. Not "things fantastical".
Caprica. Stargate: Universe. A ton of other shows pushed aside to make way for.. Wait for it.. WWE. They cancel fantastic shows, with deep writing and amazing acting. They cancel these nuggets of gold in a universe of pale reality, to make way for what? Pro Wrestling? A bunch of grown ass men wearing leotards beating on each other, but not really? Fake homosexuality, guised as adrenaline pumping action? Or what they think is "action".
Oooooh great, look at him hit that guy with a chair, fucking greaaaat, awesome. Super duper. Now he's bitching about how that guy slept with his daughter/wife/whatever - KICK HIS ASS. WOOO!
Lack luster drama, an obviously fake attempt at reality television.
Bonnie Hammer, Dave Howe, I hope they burn you at the stake when you realize where the medium is going.
And then I hope you proceed to wear stupid faces. And then I hope you say, "That's where the market was going?" And then I hope you get fired.

it's a new year, apparently.

I've been told it's 2011.
No one will really realize this until August,
so I suppose it's an inside scoop for now.
Everyone will automatically write 2010 on
near everything until they finally realize
- hey, it really is 2011 isn't it?
We develop a habit of writing a number down
for a year, and when it's time to switch up,
it doesn't seem real.
And it's because the only real difference
between December 31st, 2010, and January 1st,
2011, are words and numbers. The sun still
rises in the East, and sets in the West.
Yesterdays problems are still here today,
and as much as we kid ourselves with things
like "New Years Resolutions", and a
"Fresh Start" every 365 days - the fact is
that nothing is fresh, there is no do over.

People's mouths are glued to the endless
possibilities of a New Year. Never a
New Month. Week. Day. Hour. Minute. Second.
Millisecond. We're trapped in a sea of
foolishness. I may be cynical, but there's
something special about real optimism, as
opposed to the cookie cutter New Year variety.
We use every January first to make special
decisions when we SHOULD be making those
decisions EVERY day.
It's a proxy for real determination.
We can fake quitting smoking, drinking less,
being a better (whatever religious title you
have), or whatever you think makes you a
better person.
Or we can decide to be better every day.
And I honestly don't know why it's so scary
to do the latter.

And yesterdays problems are still here today.

Sue wants to stay with Sam despite him being
rude, hurtful, illogical, brainwashing, and
abusive. She loves him. I mean, he doesn't
love her, but whatever right? It's a New Year.

Johnny wants his pops to quit drowning himself
in alcohol every night, there're kids to feed,
bills to pay, and only liver cancer and a
bruised wife to deal with it. But maybe he
doesn't need to get help - maybe he can change.
It is a New Year.

Mister Smith wants Susie to quit whoring around
school, and zoning out on whammoh between classes.
To quit shooting up and smoking while pregnant
with her third child since Freshman year.
But hey, let's just let things run their course,
it is a New Year.

It's 2011. A chance to feign effort on dealing
with critical problems in life. To sit in silence
and let these problems "resolve themselves".
It's a bad habit humanity has gotten itself into.
Yes celebrate, but don't kid yourself.
The real point is that Mankind survived another year.
Celebrating the fact that we haven't wiped out all
of our resources. Celebrating that not everyone is
stupid enough to convert to a vegan diet, and hug
giant man eating bears. Celebrating that we haven't
nuked the fuck out of each other.
It's a celebration of survival.
Make yourselves feel better, fine. But the entire
idea of New Years Resolutions is foolish, seeing as
how we should push important decisions like this
every day.

People won't like this - or agree with that.
That's fine, this is obviously my opinion. And
you may not like it, care about it, or whatever.
But after a few debates, I'd like you to know I
probably really just don't care about yours.

Or something? I don't know, much love humanity,
let's go another year without blowing ourselves up.
And hope that South Korea wafflestomps North Korea.

P.S.

My New Years Resolution is to call Sean, Denton,
and Drews, Sean.

Have a good one.