After three weeks, I'm still not lonely.
In the last couple of days I read Beowulf and Brave New World. Now I know where JRR Tolkein got his inspiration and how the Strokes wrote "Soma" on their first alblum.
Why do some people need to be so different? It's almost as if they don't trust their own charactoristc and gifts so they'll go out of their way to be different. Appearance, interests, philosophies, everything is an accsessory (spelling) to the path of individual identity. Dye your hair pink, pierce your turkey neck, prove thy worth! Anyone who knows me will read the last sentances and say, "Why Garrison, you charlotten, aren't you branded the strange one? Doesn't thou doist what thou thinks strange of doing?"
To that statement, in old English, I yell, " Thou hast wronged me in thinking my strange way is but an act! It is but the blood that flow'th to mine brain that causes such deeds. Both brain and blood were given to me already strange and therfore my queer actions not deliberate!"
Here's a poem that's not really a poem because I did all of it and it's not flowery or hard to understand:
I wandered down the street to find a little game, bought a pack of cigarettes, a nudey mag, and chinese food, the riches of America, and America is America: denying ones part is as bad as being an American. The smoke tastes like death and for a minute or 60 I enjoy myself as Marlboros burn like cowboys in a desert sun. Killing yourself gives you some kind of control, doesn't it? Since Death is not a goal, just a falling bowling ball with everyones name on it, I put down the adultish things and walked down the road, still tasting the smoke until late the next day.
Why do some people need to be so different? It's almost as if they don't trust their own charactoristc and gifts so they'll go out of their way to be different. Appearance, interests, philosophies, everything is an accsessory (spelling) to the path of individual identity. Dye your hair pink, pierce your turkey neck, prove thy worth! Anyone who knows me will read the last sentances and say, "Why Garrison, you charlotten, aren't you branded the strange one? Doesn't thou doist what thou thinks strange of doing?"
To that statement, in old English, I yell, " Thou hast wronged me in thinking my strange way is but an act! It is but the blood that flow'th to mine brain that causes such deeds. Both brain and blood were given to me already strange and therfore my queer actions not deliberate!"
Here's a poem that's not really a poem because I did all of it and it's not flowery or hard to understand:
I wandered down the street to find a little game, bought a pack of cigarettes, a nudey mag, and chinese food, the riches of America, and America is America: denying ones part is as bad as being an American. The smoke tastes like death and for a minute or 60 I enjoy myself as Marlboros burn like cowboys in a desert sun. Killing yourself gives you some kind of control, doesn't it? Since Death is not a goal, just a falling bowling ball with everyones name on it, I put down the adultish things and walked down the road, still tasting the smoke until late the next day.