Hey Everything, Fuck You.
I'd like to take advantage of a flock of wild birds.
I either love or hate life.
If its love, it doesn't last long.
If its hate, I have no desire to keep up.
I do things to myself that eventually make me a little upset, but I suppose sometimes, life is dull without some kind of action, good or bad. I picked up this book I had been writing streams of consciousness in amidst cooling down from the summer's insanity and this shit really stood out to me:
"I'm not so sure I'd like being dead, but I am sure not alive. I feel unreal....like anything I do is only a part of a dream and I don't care what happens in it...as long as its something."
And I always love reading my old self. It helps give birth to a new, raw piece of literature
so here you have:
"Loops. My life rolls in loops. I should half expect this by now. How do you warn yourself from letting shit happen you'll always be blind to? There's no cure for the hopeless romantics. It's inevitable. I mean, let downs are inevitable. I can't stop saying "Fuck you" out loud whenever I think about it or him. If not that, then, "I hate you."
It's funny how you can go from loving all these things about one person to making a complete 180 and turn out hating those same exact qualities just because they hurt you.... Bad. The constant search for something you were just holding seconds ago, your obscenely long hair and striking resemblance to Devendra Banhart, you're disheveled apartment strictly furnished by savers and scattered with paintings, the instruments you would have to pick up or touch at least once in an hour, you're non-filter cigarettes and Roseanne marathons. The way you would always refer to me as "baby" when you really, really wanted me. The term "love."
My heart was broken just after I had finally finished piecing it back together. I suppose, such is the life of a girl who so seldom gives herself away.....until there's nothing left, of course. Then it sort of becomes a repetitive, careless kind of thing, like Summer.
When I look back at those days now, I wonder how I did it. I must have been at the bottom of the fucking barrel to have my brain so detached from my heart that I forgot it existed. Instant pleasure, instant pleasure, instant pleasure. Then again, it was Summer...the most intoxicating season of the year. I couldn't go a week without wanting to fuck one of the six guys I slept with over the course of 2 months. I used to hate sex. I used to be ashamed of my body. I let myself go. I was on this gimme binge and I did not give a single damn about anything I did or the consequences that followed.
Like a miracle, Fall strolled along and things got colder. I got colder. I chilled out. I finally gave up on any advances at all. The last person I could get my fix from moved away and I figured it was time for life in the fast lane to slow down after leaving him naked in his father's basement. It was time to come clean. I fixated my intentions on myself, making my job better, my appearance better, my life as a whole better. I didn't care about guys, only myself. I was happy working everyday, just passing time by occupying my simple mind. At the time. At the time.
And then He appeared between the parting of the clouds, in a very ordinary place, and everything seemed to come to life, again. For a good while....little did I know, I was digging myself a deeper well than I had ever expected. He had come up to me at the jukebox. He asked me to go out for a smoke. He got my phone number. He asked me to dinner. He met up with me at the bar, weekly. And then I started to wonder why he had no lips. Three weeks and nothing...I spend the night at his house, I sleep in his bed on my birthday, and nothing. I go on vacation, he misses me. I come back. Four weeks, he has lips. They touch, and we go the whole nine yards. We spend every night together, watch Roseanne together, smoke bowls together, hold hands even just to go to Tedeschis, go to parties displaying public affection, have sex 3 times in one night, hold each other as if we couldn't get close enough...always wanting more. He leaves me in his bed at 4am to pick me up a fresh bottle of Arizona iced tea just because I'm craving it. Somebody better pinch me, bitch I swear....I'll go crazy. Absolutely coockoo. I even shoved my hands down his pants at his friends house while standing in front of him, mid conversation, in a crowded room. I didn't care who knew. He painted me a picture of sun colors for Christmas. We tasted wine and worshiped chocolate. The morning sex was always paralyzingly unforgettable...no matter who was going to be late for work. I mean, we hardly ever slept. But then of course, the paint chipped from the walls, the time in between seeing each other got longer and longer, and then he left me flat on new years after we had planned to spend it together. SO there I was, alone. My head in my hands, incapable of speech. I dare say Thank you. Thank you very much for throwing me into 2010 in the worst way I could imagine: heart on the floor, love out the door. Meiko style.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you over and over until you're slamming your face and head in a repetitive pattern down the middle of a parking garage, like you do in my dreams.
& this is what I mean by "I've been crappy"
I hope you understand.
But now, ya seee...all of this made sense. The Summer, that is. How easy it was to sell myself to whoever would take me because I just wanted to know that I was worth someone's time. And not being worth yours was everything that killed me."
Anyone who ever had a heart.
I'm grinding my teeth, again.
I just can't stand this skin and Andrew Jackson Jihad always says it best.
I'm on the hunt for a completely new life because most of it is down the tubes right now.
Here ye, Here ye, to theatre therapy.
Come see A Chorus Line the first weekend in March. Tickets on sale now. I'm letting things out as the shortest bitch on the line and turning gay men straight. Or at least tonight, I did.
& my director says I've found my character.
Amen.
I either love or hate life.
If its love, it doesn't last long.
If its hate, I have no desire to keep up.
I do things to myself that eventually make me a little upset, but I suppose sometimes, life is dull without some kind of action, good or bad. I picked up this book I had been writing streams of consciousness in amidst cooling down from the summer's insanity and this shit really stood out to me:
"I'm not so sure I'd like being dead, but I am sure not alive. I feel unreal....like anything I do is only a part of a dream and I don't care what happens in it...as long as its something."
And I always love reading my old self. It helps give birth to a new, raw piece of literature
so here you have:
"Loops. My life rolls in loops. I should half expect this by now. How do you warn yourself from letting shit happen you'll always be blind to? There's no cure for the hopeless romantics. It's inevitable. I mean, let downs are inevitable. I can't stop saying "Fuck you" out loud whenever I think about it or him. If not that, then, "I hate you."
It's funny how you can go from loving all these things about one person to making a complete 180 and turn out hating those same exact qualities just because they hurt you.... Bad. The constant search for something you were just holding seconds ago, your obscenely long hair and striking resemblance to Devendra Banhart, you're disheveled apartment strictly furnished by savers and scattered with paintings, the instruments you would have to pick up or touch at least once in an hour, you're non-filter cigarettes and Roseanne marathons. The way you would always refer to me as "baby" when you really, really wanted me. The term "love."
My heart was broken just after I had finally finished piecing it back together. I suppose, such is the life of a girl who so seldom gives herself away.....until there's nothing left, of course. Then it sort of becomes a repetitive, careless kind of thing, like Summer.
When I look back at those days now, I wonder how I did it. I must have been at the bottom of the fucking barrel to have my brain so detached from my heart that I forgot it existed. Instant pleasure, instant pleasure, instant pleasure. Then again, it was Summer...the most intoxicating season of the year. I couldn't go a week without wanting to fuck one of the six guys I slept with over the course of 2 months. I used to hate sex. I used to be ashamed of my body. I let myself go. I was on this gimme binge and I did not give a single damn about anything I did or the consequences that followed.
Like a miracle, Fall strolled along and things got colder. I got colder. I chilled out. I finally gave up on any advances at all. The last person I could get my fix from moved away and I figured it was time for life in the fast lane to slow down after leaving him naked in his father's basement. It was time to come clean. I fixated my intentions on myself, making my job better, my appearance better, my life as a whole better. I didn't care about guys, only myself. I was happy working everyday, just passing time by occupying my simple mind. At the time. At the time.
And then He appeared between the parting of the clouds, in a very ordinary place, and everything seemed to come to life, again. For a good while....little did I know, I was digging myself a deeper well than I had ever expected. He had come up to me at the jukebox. He asked me to go out for a smoke. He got my phone number. He asked me to dinner. He met up with me at the bar, weekly. And then I started to wonder why he had no lips. Three weeks and nothing...I spend the night at his house, I sleep in his bed on my birthday, and nothing. I go on vacation, he misses me. I come back. Four weeks, he has lips. They touch, and we go the whole nine yards. We spend every night together, watch Roseanne together, smoke bowls together, hold hands even just to go to Tedeschis, go to parties displaying public affection, have sex 3 times in one night, hold each other as if we couldn't get close enough...always wanting more. He leaves me in his bed at 4am to pick me up a fresh bottle of Arizona iced tea just because I'm craving it. Somebody better pinch me, bitch I swear....I'll go crazy. Absolutely coockoo. I even shoved my hands down his pants at his friends house while standing in front of him, mid conversation, in a crowded room. I didn't care who knew. He painted me a picture of sun colors for Christmas. We tasted wine and worshiped chocolate. The morning sex was always paralyzingly unforgettable...no matter who was going to be late for work. I mean, we hardly ever slept. But then of course, the paint chipped from the walls, the time in between seeing each other got longer and longer, and then he left me flat on new years after we had planned to spend it together. SO there I was, alone. My head in my hands, incapable of speech. I dare say Thank you. Thank you very much for throwing me into 2010 in the worst way I could imagine: heart on the floor, love out the door. Meiko style.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you over and over until you're slamming your face and head in a repetitive pattern down the middle of a parking garage, like you do in my dreams.
& this is what I mean by "I've been crappy"
I hope you understand.
But now, ya seee...all of this made sense. The Summer, that is. How easy it was to sell myself to whoever would take me because I just wanted to know that I was worth someone's time. And not being worth yours was everything that killed me."
Anyone who ever had a heart.
I'm grinding my teeth, again.
I just can't stand this skin and Andrew Jackson Jihad always says it best.
I'm on the hunt for a completely new life because most of it is down the tubes right now.
Here ye, Here ye, to theatre therapy.
Come see A Chorus Line the first weekend in March. Tickets on sale now. I'm letting things out as the shortest bitch on the line and turning gay men straight. Or at least tonight, I did.
& my director says I've found my character.
Amen.