(no subject)
Im not in a good mood. I woke up and couldn't feel my legs, so i stayed in bed, and didnt come to school. My brother is ruining his life before it's begun and it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart.
i played piano and it hurt. carpal tunnel. i don't care if they tell me to cut back i wont. it's better to have ten or fifteen years of tremendous melody flow from my fingertips, and then to drink silence than to have to ration it out like bread in a concetration camp. My grandmother played violin. my mother said she died in a an unhappy state of mind. She thinks its because she was bored and old and lonely or something like that. But my mom doesn't understand music or feeling or anything important. at all. I think my gandma died wanting to make music. probably. and thats why she was so restless. no one listened to her. she was dead before her life was over, just because her smile wasn't pretty and her voice had gotten shaky. And she was forgetful. music is the only way you can have a conversation with yourself. you counter your own remarks. No one talked to her but her violin. I hate my family. i hate my family.
i've done two loads of laundry today. I hate clothes. I hate that i've still got six loads to do, not including whites. What does it matter in the end if my whites are blinding. I usually dont do laundry...not really. i wear what i wear for a week, gather it and wash it again. It works out pretty well. i hate matching socks.
i dont want a job, or a car or a reason to leave this town. I want to be content with these broken sidewalks, and highschool. I WANT to work in fastfood all my life. I want that to be enough. But i have to prove something. I always have to prove something. to somebody. my dad, probably, my mom. and i have to have opinions. i dont want any. I dont want any.
i want to finsih danas story. i want to finish anything.
on february night.
i played piano and it hurt. carpal tunnel. i don't care if they tell me to cut back i wont. it's better to have ten or fifteen years of tremendous melody flow from my fingertips, and then to drink silence than to have to ration it out like bread in a concetration camp. My grandmother played violin. my mother said she died in a an unhappy state of mind. She thinks its because she was bored and old and lonely or something like that. But my mom doesn't understand music or feeling or anything important. at all. I think my gandma died wanting to make music. probably. and thats why she was so restless. no one listened to her. she was dead before her life was over, just because her smile wasn't pretty and her voice had gotten shaky. And she was forgetful. music is the only way you can have a conversation with yourself. you counter your own remarks. No one talked to her but her violin. I hate my family. i hate my family.
i've done two loads of laundry today. I hate clothes. I hate that i've still got six loads to do, not including whites. What does it matter in the end if my whites are blinding. I usually dont do laundry...not really. i wear what i wear for a week, gather it and wash it again. It works out pretty well. i hate matching socks.
i dont want a job, or a car or a reason to leave this town. I want to be content with these broken sidewalks, and highschool. I WANT to work in fastfood all my life. I want that to be enough. But i have to prove something. I always have to prove something. to somebody. my dad, probably, my mom. and i have to have opinions. i dont want any. I dont want any.
i want to finsih danas story. i want to finish anything.
on february night.