the heart is a stone and this is a stone that we throw
I fail at making out with girls. I fail at cleaning my room. I fail at not wanting to rape my across-the-street-neighbor. I fail at having friends not leave Cortland. I fail at sobriety most of the time. I fail at not spending about $100 on liquor the very day I get my paycheck.
I win at loving life. I win at cleaning my car. I win at being cool enough to entice everyone back for July the Fourth. I win at convincing my mother to let me drive her car on back roads with the top down blaring Pavement and wailing along. I win at going to Brooklyn. I win at having 80% of that $100-worth-of-liquor in my freezer.
The 'win' paragraph is longer than the failure. Which means I generally win. Though, I don't know how many times I've said this before, but it is my mantra, and that of the whole of the bulk of the best of Cortland: WHERE IS MARIE?
(she's gone now onto long/fire island and happy at home i'm sure but probably not as happy as she made me being around because as diverse as our friend circle is and as bad as we were at making out [with one another but that's another whole story because i think it was just too much awesome/beautiful in one place because because because because i know i kiss well and i bet she kisses well {look at those lips!} so it was just an implosion or maybe we were just too drunk on liquor and courage] I think I get her just enough to aspire to a marie-ish status of anxious mystery and riotous eroticism and just comfort in one's own skin because one must own one's own personality and body and glasses and all i really own is greatosaur.livejournal.com and the streamofconsciousness it allows me and yeah i guess i own my own consciousness which i must say is pretty fucking awesome like sometimes i think i'm brilliant but more often than not i think i am derivative and the book [i had a really interesting discussion about books with my mother today about what i mean by books as in this book was just a folder with a photo from the 40s{?} in it and some definitions torn from an ancient dictionary and some things made typed on a typewriter but it wasn't a folder or an object or art it was a book because it closes and it contains the slightest morsel of creativity inside but the outside might not even hint at it {"stay another season." it said, typewritten on yellowed paper torn from the margin of a newspaper from 1929 (which is another thing because well all of my materials are authentic and my aim is true and my heart is in it but it's not art it's just a fucking book)}] i made for marie as a parting gift was just the right balance of each and i am self-absorbed enough to really think i made something worthwhile but none of it was my doing i just tied these found things together and maybe as a whole they worked in conjunction to be pretty neat but. But.)
I win at loving life. I win at cleaning my car. I win at being cool enough to entice everyone back for July the Fourth. I win at convincing my mother to let me drive her car on back roads with the top down blaring Pavement and wailing along. I win at going to Brooklyn. I win at having 80% of that $100-worth-of-liquor in my freezer.
The 'win' paragraph is longer than the failure. Which means I generally win. Though, I don't know how many times I've said this before, but it is my mantra, and that of the whole of the bulk of the best of Cortland: WHERE IS MARIE?
(she's gone now onto long/fire island and happy at home i'm sure but probably not as happy as she made me being around because as diverse as our friend circle is and as bad as we were at making out [with one another but that's another whole story because i think it was just too much awesome/beautiful in one place because because because because i know i kiss well and i bet she kisses well {look at those lips!} so it was just an implosion or maybe we were just too drunk on liquor and courage] I think I get her just enough to aspire to a marie-ish status of anxious mystery and riotous eroticism and just comfort in one's own skin because one must own one's own personality and body and glasses and all i really own is greatosaur.livejournal.com and the streamofconsciousness it allows me and yeah i guess i own my own consciousness which i must say is pretty fucking awesome like sometimes i think i'm brilliant but more often than not i think i am derivative and the book [i had a really interesting discussion about books with my mother today about what i mean by books as in this book was just a folder with a photo from the 40s{?} in it and some definitions torn from an ancient dictionary and some things made typed on a typewriter but it wasn't a folder or an object or art it was a book because it closes and it contains the slightest morsel of creativity inside but the outside might not even hint at it {"stay another season." it said, typewritten on yellowed paper torn from the margin of a newspaper from 1929 (which is another thing because well all of my materials are authentic and my aim is true and my heart is in it but it's not art it's just a fucking book)}] i made for marie as a parting gift was just the right balance of each and i am self-absorbed enough to really think i made something worthwhile but none of it was my doing i just tied these found things together and maybe as a whole they worked in conjunction to be pretty neat but. But.)