(no subject)
The keyboard of my laptop is totally fucked up. After Dorkwave, I somehow ended up sitting in the bathtub with it, sort of crying, drinking a Faygo mixed whiskey and coke... and I spilled it. More than likely in an attempt to shed a feeling or two into a .txt file. Now the shift key thinks it is better than me and the space bar just can't stand up for itself. As nerdy as it sounds, it makes my whole world feel unbalanced. You never know how much you rely on your empire of mp3s and collection of daily blogs until there is the threat of them being taken away. On top of these things, all I have ever wanted to do is have sex in a movie theatre. Once in the position I could, I didn't have the nerve to suggest it. And she was thinking it as I was thinking it. Shit makes me want to go gay. Though I feel like I am too much of an asshole to do so. Ironic? Yes, yes. Very much so.
I had to cut and paste that question mark because my keyboard is broken. Every time my space bar sticks is another bullet in my feeble brain. Every thought like that is another kick to my credibility as an actual human being. From countless pre-teen nights on IRC to my first Beck fan site at age eleven, the interweb has swallowed my brain down into its throat as if it were a fucking valium. Kayleigh picks on me for entirely freaking out when my electronics fuck up but it is just the way I am. I don't blame her. It is pretty retarded. I just grew up obsessed. The sound of a dial up connection was my mother goose. The whole idea of faceless communication has appealed to me since day one as a way to escape my insecurities and overall anxiety of anything and everything involving me plus anyone else. Kind of sick, I guess. Whatever. Despite how shallow and inhumane it is, we all find our own ways how to deal with this horrible and unforgiving ideal that we title the modern world.
Often I find myself missing rehab more than anything. A two week long day spa for honesty. Everybody just crying and whining where there are no bullies allowed. Everybody is the same whether your problem is a beer at the bar or a needle in your arm. It is the only place I've ever felt truly at home. A bunch of kids ranging in age from fifteen to fifty, all feeling like they're nothing but crossed eyes or dislocated bones. Aside from the overt intentions of implementing a higher power, it was the best time I ever spent. I read a lot. I smoked a lot. I slept a lot. All of it kept me so busy. I never had a second to feel black or blue, which is all I ever seem to do.
The Legends' 'Public Radio'. This album makes my dick melt like it is a marshmallow over a bonfire. Thanks Darin. I appreciate it.
My left hand always falls asleep before the right. More evidence that the dreamer's disease kills more men than any kind of cancer. We want change. We want change. Oh how we want such change, yet we tap out way before we come across any idea of how exactly to go about it. Maybe all these leftists should take their hand off of their dicks, say hello to their right, and use it to hold a hammer or a gun in order to truly make some change. This is all my just talking shit though. The only change I ever make is when a waitress splits up my twenty dollar bill.
If only I could still write. I've had this gorgeous idea for the past six months to write this illicit short story about a sexual rendezvous between my roommates. Mainly just to use the line against Stacy the Mermaid's cheeks that rides along a groove of "I'm gonna get a surgeon to split your tail into legs." This followed by two paragraphs of me sucking Curt's dick. For some odd reason, as obscenely heterosexual as I am, I love to write about homosexual acts. Especially with him. Go figure. I could write a full novel about the pain I'd succumb to fitting his head in and out of my vagina as if it were the Guinness Book of World Records' fattest baby ever born.
Heads are beginning to swirl.. and not in the regular good way. I want to punch the screen of my laptop and see it bleed ala Total Recall when Quaid freaks out at realizing the truth of his life and there are tons of rats everywhere around him in the abandoned building. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars..
Les fruits défendus sont les meilleurs. Il faut que jeunesse se passe. For every scar and cut that seems to come across my godforsaken body, I'm blessed by some kind of deity or act of fucked up nature to be able to kiss her into sleep at night. Attempting to connect the moles and blemishes of her body as if they were constellations in the zero hour between day and night, I realize that I am a lot more lucky than I ever thought I was. Burying my face into her shoulder blades is a hell of a lot better than my family burying my cold, dead and embalmed body. Nobody likes cold kisses, dude. Nobody likes the guy who can't speak. Nobody likes the guy who can't hear or see or feel or breathe. Nobody likes when ideas run on for much too longer than they should. Nobody likes to read anymore. It bums me out...
Sometimes I wish I could find the gravesite of Nathanael West and dig up and exhume his corpse. I'd place him into my bed, between my sheets, and snuggle my face up against his neck. And I'd say, I'd say, "Baby, you steal the words right out of my heart just like I stole your body out of the ground." As per usual, he'd keep quiet. His face would keep a decomposed frown but I'd know his soul is smiling. This rings true because printed word never dies. The smell that radiates from the glued spine of a novel is the only authentic afterlife. Despite how many brains blow out against walls and despite how many heads get cooked in ovens, a gorgeous sequence of sentences is the only way an individual can live forever.
I had to cut and paste that question mark because my keyboard is broken. Every time my space bar sticks is another bullet in my feeble brain. Every thought like that is another kick to my credibility as an actual human being. From countless pre-teen nights on IRC to my first Beck fan site at age eleven, the interweb has swallowed my brain down into its throat as if it were a fucking valium. Kayleigh picks on me for entirely freaking out when my electronics fuck up but it is just the way I am. I don't blame her. It is pretty retarded. I just grew up obsessed. The sound of a dial up connection was my mother goose. The whole idea of faceless communication has appealed to me since day one as a way to escape my insecurities and overall anxiety of anything and everything involving me plus anyone else. Kind of sick, I guess. Whatever. Despite how shallow and inhumane it is, we all find our own ways how to deal with this horrible and unforgiving ideal that we title the modern world.
Often I find myself missing rehab more than anything. A two week long day spa for honesty. Everybody just crying and whining where there are no bullies allowed. Everybody is the same whether your problem is a beer at the bar or a needle in your arm. It is the only place I've ever felt truly at home. A bunch of kids ranging in age from fifteen to fifty, all feeling like they're nothing but crossed eyes or dislocated bones. Aside from the overt intentions of implementing a higher power, it was the best time I ever spent. I read a lot. I smoked a lot. I slept a lot. All of it kept me so busy. I never had a second to feel black or blue, which is all I ever seem to do.
The Legends' 'Public Radio'. This album makes my dick melt like it is a marshmallow over a bonfire. Thanks Darin. I appreciate it.
My left hand always falls asleep before the right. More evidence that the dreamer's disease kills more men than any kind of cancer. We want change. We want change. Oh how we want such change, yet we tap out way before we come across any idea of how exactly to go about it. Maybe all these leftists should take their hand off of their dicks, say hello to their right, and use it to hold a hammer or a gun in order to truly make some change. This is all my just talking shit though. The only change I ever make is when a waitress splits up my twenty dollar bill.
If only I could still write. I've had this gorgeous idea for the past six months to write this illicit short story about a sexual rendezvous between my roommates. Mainly just to use the line against Stacy the Mermaid's cheeks that rides along a groove of "I'm gonna get a surgeon to split your tail into legs." This followed by two paragraphs of me sucking Curt's dick. For some odd reason, as obscenely heterosexual as I am, I love to write about homosexual acts. Especially with him. Go figure. I could write a full novel about the pain I'd succumb to fitting his head in and out of my vagina as if it were the Guinness Book of World Records' fattest baby ever born.
Heads are beginning to swirl.. and not in the regular good way. I want to punch the screen of my laptop and see it bleed ala Total Recall when Quaid freaks out at realizing the truth of his life and there are tons of rats everywhere around him in the abandoned building. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars. Get your ass to Mars..
Les fruits défendus sont les meilleurs. Il faut que jeunesse se passe. For every scar and cut that seems to come across my godforsaken body, I'm blessed by some kind of deity or act of fucked up nature to be able to kiss her into sleep at night. Attempting to connect the moles and blemishes of her body as if they were constellations in the zero hour between day and night, I realize that I am a lot more lucky than I ever thought I was. Burying my face into her shoulder blades is a hell of a lot better than my family burying my cold, dead and embalmed body. Nobody likes cold kisses, dude. Nobody likes the guy who can't speak. Nobody likes the guy who can't hear or see or feel or breathe. Nobody likes when ideas run on for much too longer than they should. Nobody likes to read anymore. It bums me out...
Sometimes I wish I could find the gravesite of Nathanael West and dig up and exhume his corpse. I'd place him into my bed, between my sheets, and snuggle my face up against his neck. And I'd say, I'd say, "Baby, you steal the words right out of my heart just like I stole your body out of the ground." As per usual, he'd keep quiet. His face would keep a decomposed frown but I'd know his soul is smiling. This rings true because printed word never dies. The smell that radiates from the glued spine of a novel is the only authentic afterlife. Despite how many brains blow out against walls and despite how many heads get cooked in ovens, a gorgeous sequence of sentences is the only way an individual can live forever.