scoundrel

the other day, I received a pair of fancy trousers from jul. it's been lightening my mood since. in fact, I have yet to even remove them. this shift seems longer than usual because ive truly a lot on my mind. actually, now that im here, im not even sure why.

ive been alright, honestly. for now.

post-am depression

The first thing I do when I wake up is put the album on loop until I fall asleep, spilling drinks on my settee.

I got it bad.

One for the Road

The mixture hits you hard
Don't get that sinking feeling
Don't fall apart.

frantic

it's insane stressing about money. It keeps me up worse than any shitty break up or any shitty shit with anyone (it's 9am and i am already so eloquent). Most of the time (particularly as of late), whenever I am home and am getting nagged at about my future and/or any forms of responsibility, I just quietly imagine myself to be quietly dead in ...mmm maybe three years? And I swear on all that may be unholy, I stop panicking for a quietly dead second and am suddenly at peace/out of my mind/unresponsive.
Is it so abnormal to be so morbidly indulgent with the thought of death? Incidentally, last night im sure I said something about death being my wet dream. But in truth (most honestly), death is my ULTIMATE wet dream. Not just any one night wet dream. The ULTIMATE. Cream dreams of dead freaks. I swoon, I fucking sway.
But I keep in mind (I think?), although one may be irresistibly inclined to and have a jarring affinity for death, it doesn't make one necessarily suicidal. In my case, yes, it probably means i am. But it may also mean that I am merely and annoyingly (not to mention embarrassingly) melodramatic. What's a blog without the drama???

It's 930 and I cant fall back asleep. Maybe I should watch I Melt With You.

finally rainy

Chasing the night
to make it right
oh and you had it
caught like a rabbit

 told you to wait
but it's too late
you got your man
rinsing him down

turning your head
to mine instead
gave me the eyes
burning like light

pleasantly and unpleasantly plaguing

i hadnt expected what i heard. like an embarrassing, flattering, and bewildering casual confession. as if i was neither meant or not meant to know. i repeat it in my head. i awoke this afternoon, gathering my thoughts for the sole purpose of being able to waste some time on it. i feel childish and foolish.

it may have been both the best and worst thing anyone has ever said about me.

(particularly the best).

sleepy, smiling stoners

THROWBACK THURFURHUR  FO YA ASS HOLE 

overtime

it's awfully exhausting to be this sad.

the lull is maddening.

i yawn unhappily.

i shouldn't have to apologize for it                          ?

ticks

even the spells are coming back. i most often try not to sit beside the door because i find myself struggling not to open it when we enter the freeway. i most often try to sit in the middle where i'm forced to deal with my mind. so i can man the fuck up. but like that drive from san diego, my dreams of jumping out of cars are trying to sway me again. i should be worried. but truly, i'm very indulgent about it. like the sound of my wristwatch is estimating me. quantifying what i have left inside me. appraising the whole of me and if i might just feel like relenting. they're like very persuasive old friends. the kind that get you to do things you didn't think you would do, or ever dare to. but you fall into their hands and the rush takes you. and you fail to recognize who you thought you were before the things that you did. only to realize that this is who you are now, and you wouldn't change it even if you could. and you wouldn't be able to look at mirrors, or any kind of reflection, because you are both too arrogant and hateful (and probably disgusted) to do so. 

you see, lately, i have been falling asleep thinking of a few disturbing things, and i've been waking up to the very same disturbing things, as if i haven't slept at all. and it's very frustrating. i am not meant to be bothered because of my inclination towards destruction. so for hours on after waking, i lay in my bed replaying the same disturbing things until it tastes good in my mouth. until it becomes some daydream i curl up to. until it's comforting to think of. and thinking of anything else (apart from my disturbing images) becomes disorienting. and i get very upset because i remember what reality is suppose to be. 

i'd like to say that i wish the spells would stop. but in contrast to how malignant they take my mind, without these spells, i don't think i would be able to walk a step or say a word without convulsing to a virulent episode. 

i'll have to give it up

i can't fall apart for another time. i feel sick. but mostly fucking dumb. sickly dumb i'll have to give it up till i get my shit together. if i ever get my shit together. but i have to give it up. maybe i won't be happy any time soon, but i should at least be able to control my shit. i'm afraid to make a sweeping declaration because i might not follow through. i'm afraid i'll remain a lush. an idiot lush. it's like the days i'd been a very heavy stoner. i told myself i'd quit for months on, and i always failed. but i suppose eventually i accomplished that. eventually i kicked that habit. but alcohol is monstrous. it's not just spacing my brain. i feel completely paralyzed to losing my shit. to being very stupid. my self-loathing has officially invaded my sanity. i think i'll start my own AA group. a group that involves only me because i'm gonna fix myself up. all by myself. AA!!!!!!!! 

there's no good note. i'm mostly very angry with myself. and i'm rather tired of waking up not knowing what stupid shit i'd done the night before. only to be informed of the stupid shit i'd done, then i'd feel that same pitiful and pathetic sinking feeling that occupies most of whatever my feelings are. i can fucking do it. 

house show, portland

Hey, who are you guys?

"We're Dads."

You guys want a donut? 

rainy day

I think I may have been truly loved before. But I don't think I had ever believed anyone. I don't think I could ever believe anyone. 

She might know what I mean. She usually understands me. Even though I'd been feeling strange lately. 

late

i am currently obsessing over the posthumous works of some of the writers i am most interested in. this is the most time i've spent with my computer because who ever uses their computer to that extent anymore. we've all got phones. but every time i destroy a phone, which is starting to feel like a biannual occurrence, i end up researching things that i never get a chance to think of when glued to my phone. yes, yet another rant about all the time i'm getting back due to not having a phone. seriously, this feels all too familiar. i just did this last january. it doesn't feel like i'll want to have a phone soon, but i know i need it. it's rather crucial now, especially for really anyone who has got a job. my wristwatch is serving me quite nicely, but we won't last long. neither will all these poorly capitalized/punctuated entries (of which, really, are just one of my attempts for a better stream of consciousness [aka i'm trying to write out da ass]). there are many books that i would like to spend all my time and money on. i've got some time and i've got some money. but neither satisfy me. (like anything ever satisfies me). today is my sister's birthday, and i'd like to sleep now, but it's only two, and i'm still very much awake. 

ps. 

i stumbled across an old entry i wrote in...2010, i believe. about a time i spent all night talking to a particular friend. and how, out of everyone, we shared most similar interests and beliefs and perspectives. we understood each other without needing so much as the pleasantries. out of everyone, still i'd say, he greatly influenced the things of which i still find interest in. and i don't want to further emphasize how disinterested i am about everything (i've beaten that subject to a dripping red pulp) but the things we used to stay up all night talking about, or listening to, or watching, remain with me as they'd always been. when all our friends would cut out for the night, we'd still drive around just to hear the songs that feel like we play just to see if we can read each other's minds. i don't mean to sound romantic, but that's what the friendship meant to me. means to me? i don't know, i hope.

it's funny because i was just talking about how much he'd changed. and how unrecognizable he seems. and how his light seems to have dimmed. then i recalled how i said that i'm one to talk. truly though, i don't think i even have a light anymore. and this all now just feel like a very unfunny dream 

(particularly all day today).

i don't care but

if this heat would pass, i'd be appreciative. it rained on labor day, and i grew hopeful. and earlier i had a dream that there was a terrible storm, but no one was happy about it with me. not even my buddy. i may have a trust complex with absolutely everyone. but i do truly want to wear my jackets and winter tights and boots and scarves and my hats. i want to cover up and drown in garments and hope i sink and dissolve into them. maybe disappear. this is awfully depressing, but i'm not sure i care about that. 

i'd very much like to sleep all day

and drool on my pillows and curl inside my blankets, waiting for my leg hairs to spike stubbly until they're longer and softer and bearable to rub against each other. i wouldn't shower or eat or drink water. the most i'd get up for is pissing or adjusting my body as to avoid a pressure ulcer. i'd leave my fan on blasting cold air at me and push open both my enormous windows. hope for pneumonia. i'd only keep my wristwatch, my glasses, and my laptop by my side because i don't really have anything else. if i could stretch far enough, i'd peel out a book from my small library, which is approximately two feet away from the foot if my bed. if i can't stretch far enough, i'll surrender back to bed, stare at my ceiling or the empty wall in front of me because my mother decided to prop up all my sketches beside me, over my head. i'd listen to the loud ticks of my wristwatch because it's a very shitty wristwatch, but lately i'd been more interested in looking at it for the time from time to time than i'd been interested in anything. you see, i'm wildly uninterested and bored and dulled by everything that has come my way. truth may be that this pretty pity i'm drawing is sad and pathetic, and i should leave my bed. but it's sad out there and i'm sad out there and for now, i'd rather be sad in here, drooling on my pillows and waiting for my leg hairs to spike stubbly. but incidentally, as life would have it, i have to go to work in an hour. and drawing a picture of being someone entirely surrendered to lethargy and the promise of truly absolutely nothing, i have to get up. i have to crawl out of here and play nice. 

ps. there's no coffee left. 

episodes

I reach this point where I lose my shit and gain consciousness again when I'm already having another mental breakdown. They've been harder to control lately. Actually, I haven't been able to control them at all. My graves are officially out and about, and they come out of me like explosive diarrhea. It's hard and fast and I'm very much uncontrollably frustrated and incoherent almost. I hate myself for it every time, but I'm too stupid not to get drunk. Because then I'd be miserably sober. But it's stupid because I also become a miserable drunk. So I'm really just miserable. And now I am miserably writing about being miserable. I shouldn't have talked to God that one time. It really fucked me up. 

50/50

Make me love life/make me want to die

r u srs

oscillating fans and Labor Day

Serotinal sadness induce over-sleeping.
I had a full twelve hours, but I guess yesterday was a good day.
We had a barbecue, and there were burgers--burgers that I balled and patted myself while everyone seasoned, dashed, sprinkled, and dropped flavors. My hands still smell like raw and seasoning. Mikal burned some buns, and we thought Azam Bzam Czam...Yzam didn't wash his hands after flinging poop. It was a charred hotdog, he said. Vagger's mashed potato was better than Azam's so he wants to challenge her at a Mashed Potato Cook-Off. Our bets are on Vag. Jul broke the slingshot but, he shattered at least four bottles, and that's impressive compared to our clinks. The beer was sweet. Shasta begged for food. I had my chips, and we ate until we hit a wall. Jordan, Gen, Pat, and Das came home. They had more beer, and the burgers went around. Thick, sassy burgers. Thanks to the jalapenos. We sat in the outdoor living room, where the couches were covered in peppercorns. "Do you know what kind of tree that is? It's a peppercorn tree. I'll roast them one day." We know Yzam. His kid is dead, he said. The papers were upstairs, and so was the pie, and so was the bathroom, so we melted in our seats outside. One of us looked up, so we all looked up. They said we should follow the end of the rainbow, but our chins just rested high. It was a full arch, and we thought it was the sign of the apocalypse. "I read the prophecy today. It must be a sign." The sky didn't seem real, and I think we were all in some disbelief that this enormous arch was just over us. A second rainbow formed faintly above the vibrant one, and we compared the two with brothers Das and Azam. They shared a jacket that night. "Someone just spit on me." Josh looked at Vagger and said, "Oh my bad." She told him fuck you and said it'll rain soon. We waved her off. We said, "No we're good. The clouds look alright." So we sat and watched the smaller arc get brighter as the sun crawled. Sip beer. Gnaw corn. Groan full. Sip beer. Smoke. Sip. "Oh someone spit on me too." "Oh me too." "Oh it's sprinkling." "Is it?" "Oh no it's raining." Our paces shifted from chin-high drowsers to a bustling clamor. Jordan and I immediately went for the Ipod and speakers that were set on the bass drum that Andrey abandoned there. I unplugged the ipod, he unplugged the speakers. I carried the speakers, and he carried the bass of it, and we trailed together up the stairs. On my down the stairs, Vagger was climbing up with her pot of mashed potatoes. Azam gathered his genius burgers, and they found shelter for our long table of food. We ran around. It rained harder, and I found myself sitting upright on the two twin beds on top of each other, set in the middle of their lawn. I let the rain on me till my sunglasses were speckled into blur. It was dark but I couldn't take them off. Some of them went upstairs and watched the rain from the balcony. Mak and Azam and Vag and Jul sat on the couch under the peppercorn tree and I could feel them watching me. I had taken off my beanie by then and let my hair get soaked. My sweater was soaked. And my bare legs were soaked. Josh sat behind me, and asked if I wanted a sip. I did so I took it. The rain slowed, and I joined them on the outdoor living room. Then we all met together on the outdoor living room. It got dark, and music was now playing upstairs from the record player. Unknown Pleasures. Azam found a box of Christmas lights. There was a net light. A big-bulbed light. A cactus light. And a red tube light. All the guys laughed, and Azam said, "Yeah only the guys get it." The four girls scorned sarcastically at him and said, "Yeah ONLY the guys get it. ONLY the guys masturbate." Mak untangled the red tube light, then hung them on the plants behind the red couch, and on that pink honeycomb. We had one extension cord, so we only had one red tube light. But everyone's faces glowed red, and we sat silent for a while. Smoke. Sip. Smoke. The guys piled on top of each other on the twin mattress, with Azam on the very bottom. Then Josh. Then Pat. Then Jord. Then Jul. We wondered if Azam was dead as they all groaned. A few visitors came by. Then we had pie. And we had another round of feasting. The Swan Lake played on. Kylie Minogue played on. Hall and Oates played on. The red tube light flickered occassionally through the night, and eventually we all trickled out to our cars. "It was a good day today." She smiled. I said, "Yeah," then walked to my car with three blankets and two bags of chips, smiling.