During my out of body experience I noticed that I'm really tall, but my UGP jeans make me look fat.
There will be jubilation the day he dies.
"Let us be grateful," the world will sing in perfect and eerie harmony, "that finally his writing has lost its fictional nature. Let us be thankful his words finally caught up to the poor bastard."
The opus of his funeral will not be a sombre piece filled macabre melodies and mournful tunes. It will be a celebration of blatant merriment. A great carousal of sorts.
"Let us give thanks for the blessing of his death thus ceasing the burden of his life." The priest is a drunken asshole.
My band played a show last night in Shelocta. I decided to stay home, but my soul insisted on going. So on the video tape the kid who looks like me who's thrashing around and screaming and falling and crying . . . that's not me. That's just the most presentable shape my emotions decided to take to appear in. Of course, my emotions dress very well.
I just realized that I used to get my hair cut by a bald man. Why didn't I realize how bad of an idea that was before?
I really appreciate everyone's compliments, but now I feel the pressure to deliver every time. And now writing has made me nervous. Because sometimes my rants aren't poetic or interesting to read. Sometimes they're dull and dry. Sometimes they're incoherent. Sometimes they're just simple. Please forgive me if once in a while I light the fuse and nothing happens.
Am I cliche?
I write in reverie. Do you read with your eyes open and your mind closed?
Am I missed? Does she miss me as much as I miss her? Am I missing her less or is the pain becoming tolerable? I've never been one to "search for the answers to life." I just want the answers to Dutch. I never took apart anything just to see how it worked. I want to know how I work. Or better yet; why I work.
It seems I have a few loyal readers. If you read this, close your eyes and picture a door. Any door. Then put in the comments section what your door looks like. I once pictured a door. It was metallic, but it showed signs of dilapidation and rust. Then I made the foolish mistake of opening it. I won't tell you what's beyond the door in my mind, but I will warn you it's probably better to just leave your door shut.
"Let us be grateful," the world will sing in perfect and eerie harmony, "that finally his writing has lost its fictional nature. Let us be thankful his words finally caught up to the poor bastard."
The opus of his funeral will not be a sombre piece filled macabre melodies and mournful tunes. It will be a celebration of blatant merriment. A great carousal of sorts.
"Let us give thanks for the blessing of his death thus ceasing the burden of his life." The priest is a drunken asshole.
My band played a show last night in Shelocta. I decided to stay home, but my soul insisted on going. So on the video tape the kid who looks like me who's thrashing around and screaming and falling and crying . . . that's not me. That's just the most presentable shape my emotions decided to take to appear in. Of course, my emotions dress very well.
I just realized that I used to get my hair cut by a bald man. Why didn't I realize how bad of an idea that was before?
I really appreciate everyone's compliments, but now I feel the pressure to deliver every time. And now writing has made me nervous. Because sometimes my rants aren't poetic or interesting to read. Sometimes they're dull and dry. Sometimes they're incoherent. Sometimes they're just simple. Please forgive me if once in a while I light the fuse and nothing happens.
Am I cliche?
I write in reverie. Do you read with your eyes open and your mind closed?
Am I missed? Does she miss me as much as I miss her? Am I missing her less or is the pain becoming tolerable? I've never been one to "search for the answers to life." I just want the answers to Dutch. I never took apart anything just to see how it worked. I want to know how I work. Or better yet; why I work.
It seems I have a few loyal readers. If you read this, close your eyes and picture a door. Any door. Then put in the comments section what your door looks like. I once pictured a door. It was metallic, but it showed signs of dilapidation and rust. Then I made the foolish mistake of opening it. I won't tell you what's beyond the door in my mind, but I will warn you it's probably better to just leave your door shut.