I'm now huffing gas and sniffing paint to take away this buzz that I call you
Date: 10/22/04
Climate: Fantastically Fall
Reading: Maxim magazine, for the articles of course
Listening to: The Cure - still track 3
Xbox: HALO 2
Drinking: Over my weight in vodka
Eating: Crumbs from beneath the toaster
Smoking: Too much crack
"...when you go to the ocean and you roll your jeans up and feel the wave hit against your shins for the first time you dont really rate the wave. you dont hold a cue card up to the ocean and give it a 9 for punctuality and a 5 for temperature. You just sort of close your eyes and lean your head back, aware of your neck for the first time in awhile and feel it. maybe you sort of quietly thank the ocean for being there and the rest of your otherwise mundane life just drifts off, like when the kitchen quits smelling like soup. not that i don’t like soup."
Time moves in intervals of drag ass; slow, and electric jolt up your ass; fast. Writing is like masturbation, you need to find somewhere quiet without distraction and line up all the necessarry essentials to feel around, pull on things to give you the peak that you're searching for. You don't really want to let anyone in because it's such a private affair and the thoughts and ideas that conjure up in your mind should be better kept to yourself.
There in lies the problem of trying to write with the band and not on my own. So many different ideas, so many different voices, it's hard to masturbate when Jon is sending you death glares and Greg is nagging in your ear about the word play. I'm taking one for the team, expanding, letting the voices add together to the point where they're almost ear piercing, yet the sound that comes from it is damn near orgasmic.
It's times like those that make it feel as if someone has shoved a livewire up my ass and that jolt, the shock of adrenalin rushing through my body makes me feel higher than any pills or alcoholic content could ever get me. There's another high in life but I tasted that and right now isn't the time to talk about that.
The slow though that is almost so horrifically unbearable comes at night when I'm standing on the train platform, standing just close enough to feel the suction want to pull me closer but just enough force to hold me back. There's a moment there where all the sounds kind of still, the flickering lights don't really enhance clearity and the air is so stale it feels as if I've suddenly stopped in some space of time that isn't of this world, it hasn't caught up yet to the rest. Standing still. The mind plays tricks on lucid minds, clouded by intoxicants, gives time to think and thinking is not a close friend of mine these days.
Yeah I know I should care if you come with me
Yeah and I should care if you go
Really should care about your love or your hate of me
Yeah I should care... but I don't
And it's not about giving up on you
It's not a case of do or die
It's simply that it's over and out for me
There's no more room inside
Climate: Fantastically Fall
Reading: Maxim magazine, for the articles of course
Listening to: The Cure - still track 3
Xbox: HALO 2
Drinking: Over my weight in vodka
Eating: Crumbs from beneath the toaster
Smoking: Too much crack
"...when you go to the ocean and you roll your jeans up and feel the wave hit against your shins for the first time you dont really rate the wave. you dont hold a cue card up to the ocean and give it a 9 for punctuality and a 5 for temperature. You just sort of close your eyes and lean your head back, aware of your neck for the first time in awhile and feel it. maybe you sort of quietly thank the ocean for being there and the rest of your otherwise mundane life just drifts off, like when the kitchen quits smelling like soup. not that i don’t like soup."
Time moves in intervals of drag ass; slow, and electric jolt up your ass; fast. Writing is like masturbation, you need to find somewhere quiet without distraction and line up all the necessarry essentials to feel around, pull on things to give you the peak that you're searching for. You don't really want to let anyone in because it's such a private affair and the thoughts and ideas that conjure up in your mind should be better kept to yourself.
There in lies the problem of trying to write with the band and not on my own. So many different ideas, so many different voices, it's hard to masturbate when Jon is sending you death glares and Greg is nagging in your ear about the word play. I'm taking one for the team, expanding, letting the voices add together to the point where they're almost ear piercing, yet the sound that comes from it is damn near orgasmic.
It's times like those that make it feel as if someone has shoved a livewire up my ass and that jolt, the shock of adrenalin rushing through my body makes me feel higher than any pills or alcoholic content could ever get me. There's another high in life but I tasted that and right now isn't the time to talk about that.
The slow though that is almost so horrifically unbearable comes at night when I'm standing on the train platform, standing just close enough to feel the suction want to pull me closer but just enough force to hold me back. There's a moment there where all the sounds kind of still, the flickering lights don't really enhance clearity and the air is so stale it feels as if I've suddenly stopped in some space of time that isn't of this world, it hasn't caught up yet to the rest. Standing still. The mind plays tricks on lucid minds, clouded by intoxicants, gives time to think and thinking is not a close friend of mine these days.
Yeah I know I should care if you come with me
Yeah and I should care if you go
Really should care about your love or your hate of me
Yeah I should care... but I don't
And it's not about giving up on you
It's not a case of do or die
It's simply that it's over and out for me
There's no more room inside