Friday, January 30, 2004

This is me.

Wearing too-expensive jeans torn from a dogbite to the leg; a green t-shirt with a breast pocket, tucked in to the aforementioned jeans as to not be walked upon. Cuffs to which are rolled up for the same reason. Nice tight socks.

This is me as a stylistic exercise. Me trying to be cool.

I exercise to the sound of Liars. Wanting not just to be thin, because I am thin, but I want to be post-punk. I want to be bones and connective muscle tissue. Lithe. I want to seem brittle.

Everything is a pose because we can't express the sum total of human experience all at once. This is the pose I want, one of a man skinny and tightly wound, all thoughts like 4 AM thoughts anti-social and brilliant and no not fucking pretentious, there is no artifice, this is your brain on nosleep and movies and books and music I've seen too much I've read too much I've seen too much. (you haven't seen enough) NO ONE'S AROUND.

Wrote a little song lyric this afternoon:
Like an episode of the Twilight Zone where everyone you know is dead, but they're just avoiding you.

Wrote a line of dialogue earlier in the evening: “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Well, no, that’s not true. But the things I was more sure about in the past? Yeah, they were right. Other things I was slightly less sure about? Also right. I am right about this too, you can trust me.”

This is your brain on BEINGFUCKINGWEIRD.

This is me as a stylistic exercise. tryingtoohardmaybe?

Shut the fuck up. (oh here's a thought I had a ways ago: Remember in elementary school when we were told not to say shut up, that "Be quiet" would suffice? And we disagreed, because "be quiet" did not seem harsh enough to get the point across and we continued to say "shut up." And now look where we are, unable even to say shut up, we need to throw "The fuck" in there, just so you know, oh dude I am not fucking around I want you to be quiet. BE QUIET. Harsh like a scream but quiet like a whisper. I want to bring back Be Quiet and I want it to mean something. I can't make it mean something because yeah, look at me. I can't make anything mean anything. It's all bullshit. I can't pull off harsh like razorblades. I am more like a bunny rabbit. No, seriously, I am, I am a bunny rabbit dipped in lemon juice. Acid on my hairs, it's just citric acid but whatever I guess that can burn some people. Of course it's on me all the goddamn time, it's not meant to hurt you, but think about it, hurts me more, I've got citric acid in my fucking eyes and it burns it burns and it's funny when it hurts other people, but it shouldn't hurt them that bad, it's only lemon juice after all, and sure it might seem like it comes from me but I don't want to hurt you. It's in my eyes, I'm saturated in it I am soft on the inside but everything is going to hurt because that's the way the world fucking works)

You want me to write more and I'm giving you what you wanted. Liars on a loop now.



Oh, God yes.

This is me?

Um, what?

Style over substance because I've got nothing to say. Kill Bill was cool so maybe all will be forgiven.

Of course, Kill Bill was very wisely split up into two halves because there's only so much bullshit you can take right? That's the reasoning. I guess its a certain mood you have to be in but its a mood I'm always in.

This mood, I guess its a rarity. Or is it? Is this my brain on nosleep or my brain unfiltered?

Think about that next time you talk to me and I'm trying too hard to make jokes that no one laughs at.

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