(no subject)
Excerpts from family outing:
"Will, do you think I'm a chigger?"
"Whoo, it's hot in here. It's like an oven."
My brother has some sort of disgusting wound on his arm, in a place full of nice, fat veins. It's a 'mosquito bite'. I hope he, you know. Dies. If he does die, I'm totally joking.
I am in possession of a green monkey and an acoustic guitar. I want to strip naked and play one of these two things, poorly, while sitting beside a campfire. These primal urges, man. It's scary how close we are to becoming them, and they us. That thin line of nucleotides that separates normal people and those assholes who play acoustic guitars all the time.
I read a little(I say a little, because I haven't, you know. Killed myself yet. Or became an alcoholic. So it wasn't like, that much) Bukowski last night, and wrote on a notecard in red pen before going to sleep:
"He reminds me of a black and white photograph of an extinguished post-coital cigarette,
His style has a sort of hidden strongness that I like."
I need a drink. (Water, Ash. Water.)
Next week will probably suck pretty hard. This month has been a lot less stressful than I expected, which means the post-school stress will blow mightily, unless I run away from home and join the army. That would be pretty carefree of me. Totally no one would expect it, either. I'll keep you on your toes for real.
[10:43]
And now for something completely different and inappropriate
Fucking internet. Please don't click that.
Shit, which includes fake prom and cash money and foreign countries, just got complicated, by the way. The military-industrial complex and the underlying socioeconomic--wouldn't it be grand if I had an actual end to that sentence. I really want to use those words while pretending to like people when I'm The Man. I definitely have more work to do than I had previously imagined, thank Hashem for inventing paper and lists written on paper.
"Will, do you think I'm a chigger?"
"Whoo, it's hot in here. It's like an oven."
My brother has some sort of disgusting wound on his arm, in a place full of nice, fat veins. It's a 'mosquito bite'. I hope he, you know. Dies. If he does die, I'm totally joking.
I am in possession of a green monkey and an acoustic guitar. I want to strip naked and play one of these two things, poorly, while sitting beside a campfire. These primal urges, man. It's scary how close we are to becoming them, and they us. That thin line of nucleotides that separates normal people and those assholes who play acoustic guitars all the time.
I read a little(I say a little, because I haven't, you know. Killed myself yet. Or became an alcoholic. So it wasn't like, that much) Bukowski last night, and wrote on a notecard in red pen before going to sleep:
"He reminds me of a black and white photograph of an extinguished post-coital cigarette,
His style has a sort of hidden strongness that I like."
I need a drink. (Water, Ash. Water.)
Next week will probably suck pretty hard. This month has been a lot less stressful than I expected, which means the post-school stress will blow mightily, unless I run away from home and join the army. That would be pretty carefree of me. Totally no one would expect it, either. I'll keep you on your toes for real.
[10:43]
And now for something completely different and inappropriate
Fucking internet. Please don't click that.
Shit, which includes fake prom and cash money and foreign countries, just got complicated, by the way. The military-industrial complex and the underlying socioeconomic--wouldn't it be grand if I had an actual end to that sentence. I really want to use those words while pretending to like people when I'm The Man. I definitely have more work to do than I had previously imagined, thank Hashem for inventing paper and lists written on paper.