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.