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.