Sad sad is t

I am most irrelevant to the person I care the most about. How sad is that.

Damn that bastard

Why do you plague me...

four am

I spent my four am downloading The Raven then reading The Raven aloud in my most accurate accent.

do apple juice and whiskey go well together?

The answer is no. Where is my ginger ale?

My ginger ale, actually, is in fact under my desk. But considering it is nearly two weeks old (if not more), I refused to mix my drink. Today I cried for my bird for literally hours. I avoided going home because I refused to see my dead bird. But eventually, the night became unbearable, I went home, saw my dead bird, and cried some more.

I am not quite sure why I have been weeping so much. I am suspicious that it is because it's been a tough weekend. I just spent five hours watching chick flicks. That is what I get for having Jawsh back in my life. It's literally as if he inspires me to be a sap. I don't want to be a sap. It's annoying and it makes me sad in a soft way unlike my usual bitter and hardened way.

It's four am, and I don't believe I'm quite done drinking yet. If there's anyone who can make me feel badly about being an alcoholic, speak up now. But considering I shit on myself harsher than anyone ever, no one can touch me. So fuck all of you. I'm sad, but at least I'm not a slut. (There'd been a lot of slutshaming lately. Most of which [if not all] are by me).

(This weekend, I spread more rumors than I ever have before. Someone be proud of me).

PS. Season your meat well.

PPS. You don't want them to spit it out.

truth

I terribly want to cuddle my dead bird.

casualties of the weekend

my wristwatch
my dignity
my liver
my throat
my pride
my bird

I'll cry if I want to.

I disorient them when I'm stern. Only because I'm most likely a joke.

scoundrel

my hobbies include

Rumors
Beep beeps
Kneesock
BLTs
Nachos
Uncorking wine
Gum
Getting irritated at the sound of my laugh
Wild style
Wearing some clothes
Bitching about my hair
Conversing with myself aloud
Being embarrassing
Denying boobs
Sleeping

Am I dying yet?

I feel
like
all the liquor in the world decided to reside in my right eye. How does that work? I wake up. I don't know how things went about. And I awake sore in my right eye. Someone got me a bag beside my bed which made me think about the last time I puked. Then I realized I can't recall when I last did. I'm not sure that's a good thing. Haven't got anymore cigarettes.  Jawsh told me I'm the most terrible influence. I think he might be right.

dark night poem (uncollected)

“they say that
nothing is wasted:
either that
or
it all is.”

-Bukowski

unheard

If I were to lie with a song, I'd lie with Do I Wanna Know. I'd been getting stoned lately because I can't write drunk. Drunk gets me to abandon my thoughts. I haven't quite gotten it yet. But if I were to lie with a song, at this very moment, I'd lie with Do I Wanna Know.  Last night, I heard it unlike I have before. And I've listened to it enough times to think I'd beaten the greatness out of it. Last night, I listened to that song and let it seep into me like a fucking virus, in the most pathetic way possible. The whole time, I just kept thinking, it must be gory being at someone's disposal. It must be murderous to choose to be at someone's feet. Only moving if they move. Only speaking if they speak. The worst part of it is realizing that you are at their disposal. That everything you have been doing, planning, or saying had every bit of that person in mind. That's the song for me. A series of nearly in disbelief questions about how unrequited and how pitiful things have been, and finally realizing it. It's a confessional really (the entire album is). It takes the creativity and cleverness of their past work and presents itself in very big, bold letters. It's saying exactly what they intend on saying without getting too funny. Now through out the song, the composure sarcastically remains, even with all the embarrassing admissions. It's hopeless but smart and pissed off. At the end of it, the last few lines, he asks (with guts, with mockery and absolute cynicism), "Do you want me crawling back to you?" I lost my shit. I saw my life like I hadn't before and heard this song like I hadn't before.

It confesses.

It inquires. 

It realizes. 

It wants to say fuck you, but might possibly crawl back after all. 

I slap this shit every times it plays, without hesitation or exception. 

These are my embarrassing admissions in a song.

and I'm not the kind who tries to

Been a shithead
Been pissing a lot
Been pensive I guess
Probably
Been writing weird shit
Been alright for like a minute
Beanie
Everything becomes a fucking beanie.
I get to feed Kneesock with a little guy.
Been thinking about walking everywhere
Pretend I don't have a car
Like I used to do
Talk to myself on the streets
Make shit up.

Electronic liferuiners

I just watched Vaggy uglycry through the reflection of her crashing laptop as I attempted to salvage it. One of the best uglycries I have seen in a while. Hats off to uglycrying. Now she's redoing her paper from scratch on my laptop while I sit here thinking about the last time I uglycried. Can't remember. Probably the last time I cried since all my cries are ugly. Hats off to bitches who can pull off a prettycry. That is something that 90% of the human population could never execute. Hats off to hats because without hats, beanies would probably have never existed. Hats off to beanies because beanies are good. Hats off. But I won't take my beanie off...

soar eighty

I fidgeted at some point during my drive. Sunglasses before sunrise. I kept looking at my wristwatch, seeking reassurance. The weather fought with me for a second, or maybe I fought with it. I don't know. We kind of just tried to avoid each other, trying not to bump shoulders or look up from the tiles. I cranked the heat to abnormally loud, but rolled my windows down anyway. It had to be done. I had to be done. Anyway, I soared eighty on an empty road. Raced motorists who chose ten below me. I felt agile and competent, and I kept waiting for one really good moment. Like the last time I was conscious of it. There's this album I played. This album, most obviously myself. I'd never done it before because it frightened me. Weakened me. Then I realized after, that I'd just been absurd before. Immature about it. Like a stubborn child. It went on and I sat still, passed what I tend to believe is a natural trip. My voice wasn't hoarse, like I expect it to be. It was clear and strong, and I listened to it like the first moment of meeting myself. Like a very familiar voice of a stranger. I can't remember now much of what I had been thinking about. All I was certain of is my oddity of thoughts, for that particular morning. I do remember thinking about Ferlinghetti, and how perverse he must seem. How he wrote a novel that simply could might as well be a masturbatory story. "I was bearing a white phallus through the wood of the world, I was looking for a place to plunge it, a place to surrender it." That's the first stream of the book, and it has always stuck with me. I always like to note the difference between poets and novelists. Especially when poets write a novel, or vice versa.  This guy is obviously a poet. He lacks the certain conciseness of story-telling. Right now, I like it because his obsession (I expect), will guide me through his self-loathing and narcissism. How relevant for me. Apart from Ferlinghetti, my most distinct thought of the morning was to write it down. When you get off 24, write down what you can remember. Because you never write it down anymore. And you never make sense of things anymore. And you used to be secretive and selective of anyone else, but at least you wrote about things. I can't recognize anymore. So write it down. Before you forget. Before you arrest to caring again. Write it down.
Write it down.
Write, until it gets hards.

play the home song

I blacked out after my party. Nothing unusual. Not too early, but I still died. Mikal told me I tried to run down the street at some point and I had to be chased down. She told me to enjoy this time because we don't know when everyone will be together like this again. I responded with "I don't give a fuck." Nothing unusual. Normal behavior. I remember waking up at 5am after that party, alone in the dark of my room.

The other day, I was told that when I died that night, all our homies crammed in my room with me while I was passed out. The family squeezed its whole self in a tiny room when the party was dying. Vagger described it as very packed and very humid and very smelly. Smelly, drunk turds dancing on my bed while I'm dead. Sometimes, I just really love my buddies. Wish I was alive for that moment though. To be honest.

I'm happy for you baby. But I don't wanna know.

garlic

I think the only reason why people give me a sick feeling in my stomach is because I give myself a sick feeling in my stomach. Hate everyone cause hate me.

Self-loathing game strong.

It's time

If I don't take a trip soon, I'll be solidly tripping for one whole month.

obsessed with sleep

Five minutes.

Thirty minutes.

I'm never leaving my bed.

I'll never leave my bed.

Damnit I need to piss.

sneeze

I got home from work. Ate a bowl of leftovers. Laid unmoving on my couch, clutching on Guillermo, for roughly an hour. Anxious. I put on a jacket. Walked to my car. Now I'm in my car, and I realize I have nowhere to go. A man walking his dog just passed my car, giving me a very slight fright. It's weird having nowhere to go.

list of my October favorites

inspired by all the damn youtubers

1. I can wear a beanie without melting.

2. Cigarettes are like little sticks of heater. Except it doesn't actually warm you.

3. Thinking about Thanksgiving, and dying of overeating. 

4. Kneesock, my most beloved creature on this very planet.

5. Watching Kneesock eat other bugs. She's cool and calm. Seeing her prey on other creatures turns me on, Idc, I said it.

6. Mashed potato.

7. Endless amounts of alcohol from previous parties.

8. Orange.

9. My bench aka my most constant birthday company.

10. Shower stoned.

11. Vandalism. 

12. Wishing I was a lesbian.

13. Wishing I was a black widow.

14. Falling asleep to playlists on youtube.

15. Thoughts about holding Kneesock in my right hand and finding another black widow to hold in my left hand. Then laying supine with both my hands enclosing those beautiful spiders, waiting to get bitten. It sounds like it'd be quite a trip.

16. (Death by a spider).

lossser

I woke up at seven this morning because someone cranked the heater all tge way up to annoying. I am just starting to enjoy the presence of freezing. Waking up in heat makes it irritating.

[Insert the perfect mixture of a melodramatic statement / sarcastic confession here]

For about an hour now, I've been staring around my room, wondering how long could I possibly lock myself in here for, while popping my shoulder blade in and out of its place. It sounds like someone chewing on chicken cartilage. I ball myself deep inside my bed, wondering when was the last time I woke up without wondering why I'm still here.

I'm in a bad way.

^ my ultimate understatement. 

can't think about getting slammed

because I'm too pissed at the sight of my face.

I'm fucking pissed

I'm pissed because I am stuck watching drag queens look fucking amazing unlike my scrub ass self. Earlier I thought about stabbing my face with all the pens that I own. Do you know how many pens I own? Sick of being hurt. Cry.

Oh well

Oh well.

ripped roll

Kneesock cuddles with all her victims. That's why I like her. I have one goal after death, qnd that goal is to be reincarnated into a black widow. How ever I'll go about that.
The other day, my pal and I agreed to sell our souls to the devil. I don't think my soul is worth too much, but I can hope for the best. If I can at least be half as bad as Kneesock, I'd be alright.

PS
I am mourning the very fact that I can't dance well enough for seduction. If I could be a gay guy, maybe life wouldn't be so tough.

early-twenties hobbies

drunk dancing
drunk breakdowns
drunk eating
drunk drinking
drunk chunk-it
stretching out beanies
stealing beanies
swooning over beanies
loving beanies
hate-crying
hate-eating
hate-drinking
hate-living
collecting spiders
collecting pens
collecting a liver disease
collecting sadness
collecting non-memories
blacking out
falling out
coming out
protruding out
selling out
crying out
over-eating
over-drinking
over-dramatic
over living
pissing
shitting
swearing
slurring
dying slowly
trying slowly
living lowly
writing nothing
reading nothing
watching nothing
listening to nothing
listening to no one
eating everything
drinking everything
hating everything
sorry for everything
sorry for nothing

post-sunday shits

I am currently shitting for the planet. I am shitting everything that I ingested this passed weekend. It felt like explosive diarrhea and I haven't had that since Ace left for Paris. Now I'm beginning to think that I had explosive diarrhea due to her summer homecoming. I have a bottle of Jaeger that I will become one with for tonight. Try and forget about the next few days to come. Still shitting for the world as I sign off now...

post-shitface

minor hangover
morning hair is banging
proud of my talented follicles
woke up with the bieber posters torn to shreds and a few new and unfamiliar objects in my room.
my house looks like it's sticky.
the floors make me feel like I should bleach them.
woke up alone in my room and was sad when I didn't see mak here.
went to the living room and she was curled up on the small couch.
she told me I got bad at some point last night.
she said I tried to run down the street.
I thought it was familiar of me.
there's still a bowl of gin and juice on the counter.
at six am, I scarfed two plates of spaghetti while laughing, watching Boy Meets World.
I am Eric Matthews.
I repeat I am Eric Matthews.
an alcoholic, cynical Eric Matthews. 
now I am thinking about getting another plate.
probably will
cody kept calling me fancy pants last night.
so a slew of defiantly deep-voiced drunkards sang happy birthday to fancy pants.
my living room said unhappy birthday.
yes
unhappy birthday.

Bieber Pong

They also gave me a shirt. I wore it for roughly an hour until I couldn't think straight anymore. Fernan and Ryan think of literally the most intense birthday presents....ever...

Punctuality

Vagger called that he'd be the first guest. And what do you know, he was the first guest. Also he got me a card SO. Haters back off.

schweppes and seagram's whiskeyboy

it's been a terribly strange night. i finished the first season of ru my drag pu pu's. it was very tense and i very much enjoyed it so i think i'll start on the second season soon. i unearthed a bottle of whiskey from the back of my car, from that night when xavier and i got plastered beyond our faces. he threw up on the grass, and i nearly slept in my car. i had plans tonight of tidying my room and posting things on my walls but instead i got very distracted with snapchat and my snapchat pals and now i've begun drinking and am far too lazy to do any tidying. maybe tomorrow. or whatever. as of right now, this very moment, my left index finger is the only finger of which i have trimmed because by another fault of laziness, i decided i don't care if my nails are long. they're a bother, but i don't care if my nails are long. i'll remain ungroomed and unhappy for as long as i possibly can. if any of you fuckers know, any which of you fuckers who bother to read whatever this page here has to ever offer, i am nearly turning twenty-poo. twenty-caca. twenty-no. twenty-why. i hate myself and i hate this life but i'd really like to celebrate this prolonged and uncertain hate life i've got going for me. whether or not i'll be alive for a celebration will be all up to my silly and impetuous whims. my shoulders right now have insanely stubborn knots that my very stupid hands cannot untangle. it pains me and i would like to hire someone to handle my problems for me. tonight i kept thinking about 505 and how i am quite terrible with what i invest my feelings in. so far, i'm doomed and fucked with what i got myself into years ago and it will continue to destroy me until i finally man up and let that shit go. nearly convinced myself that this is what will kill me. but i'm certainly not that lucky. for the love of god, i need to unleash these knots on my shoulders. i've only had one glass of whiskeyboy and schweppes and i'm growing quite bored again. but really though, all i'd like is a steak. medium rare with a side of godly-seasoned mashed potatoes. 

pour

another.

v anal about ipod organization

so anal that it's dp

I literally spent thirty odd minutes taking pictures of myself as if I was having sex with myself
ie. here's a pic of me pretending I'm looking down at me during (or right before) intercourse. (or it could be a pic that I took of me while me was on top of me).

"I'd probably
still
adore you
with your hands
around
my
neck.

Or I did last time
I checked."

my emotional attachments are very fucked up

Kneesock, my one and only concern because nothing is terribly important to me.

sweat

I hate the very word, but everything seems very awkward right now, somehow. Like a terrible, dirty dream, under squeamish circumstances. Or those parts in pornography where things get too out of hand, and you just have to turn away. Don't be a pervert. I only mean it seems that way. My life is not a dirty dream, and my life certainly isn't pornography. My life is very awkward right now, and I can't even turn away.

ru

I am v much in love with drag queens.

drunk at a coffee shop

I feel better here.

nearly 2am

i just spent an hour trying to figure out how to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew, because like all my simple problems, i lost my corkscrew. on the upside, i think i perfected the use of a steak knife to open a bottle. deep red, cabernet sauvignon tonight, with an inadvertently chosen design bottle of a fox in a vineyard. it's called foxmoor.

there's a fly in my room, but i'm too tired to be annoyed. i'll try and read the book i purchased today until i fall asleep. and i'll try to write down my last thoughts of the night. and i'll try and make a new list in that very tiny notebook. but i can only try. chances are i'll just pass out with my face smashed into my mattress, drooling to some video that makes it passed the sleep schedule of my laptop. the wine is soaring in my head now, but even i'm sick of this. is it possible not to get sick of anything? good thing it's sunday tomorrow (or today, i suppose). even if that doesn't mean anything. 

what shit

Don't fucking trip. Everyone bums everyone out anyway.

My car is probably the safest place for me. Ironic because I most often dream of crashing it or driving off a bridge. I need wine, it's one-fifteen in the morning, and this is deafening. I'll try not to think about what day it is or how the weather is or why I ended up here. I'll just think about the drag queens, and the spider and the wasp that it trapped, and how I want to blast the fan on me till I melt to the middle of the next day.

idiots

Apart from the entire premature deterioration of that which I call my life, missing my friends would probably be saddest and most childish branch of it. Not just my friends, but the moment where everything fell into place for a very, very fleeting moment. For one, I am heavily inclined to falling back and wallowing about things that have been the past, so being in this perpetual state right now does not come as a surprise, for anyone. Secondly, my youth wasn't perfect nor was it wild and unimaginable. But it was, to me, perfect enough that for a second there, I literally did not worry about a single thing. I was careless, and free, and happy. That may have been the last time I was happy for longer than just a numerable moment. So yes, I'm inching to twenty-two, and I still get very sad thinking about them. I feel like I was very addicted to them. Or to us. We could all barely go without each other for more than a few hours. All summer that summer, for however many consecutive days, we'd wake up, call each other up, meet up, keep meeting up till we were all absolutely together, be together everywhere we can, split for our family dinners (if that even), then reunite again till the very early hours of morning. I don't remember feeling horrendous about anything, ever. (Not that there weren't bad times, it just proves to me how insignificant and mundane my troubles were because I can't even recall them). I know it's foolish of me. But I'm a stupid fool anyway.

Just the simple gesture of them remembering my birthday makes me...emotional almost. Not almost. Definitely. Birthdays are shit, always. But when my homies go to their way to ask me what I'll be up to, well it's nice. And to assure that they'll be there no matter what, I guess it makes things alright for just a second. I guess I don't know what I'm bitching about. They're great.

I was watching This Must Be the Place earlier (le film), and once the scene where "This Must Be the Place" plays (la chanson), my dumbass started welling tears to the brim. Too much white zin. Someone is snoring too loudly next door. And the lamp in my room is far too bright. I need another glass because I am terribly bored.

my thoughts while laughing freely aloud

"stop. why is my laugh so annoying. stop laughing."

regretful everyday questions in my head

"Why did I eat that?"
"Why did I say that?"
"Why didn't I say that?"
"Why did I get mad?"
"Why am I so embarrassing?"
"Why did I leave the house?"
"Why did I go home?"
"Why the fuck was I born?"
"Why am I still alive?"
"Why didn't I stab it all the way through?"
"Why did I go out with that guy?"
"Why did I have sex with that person?"
"Why was I friends with that idiot?"
"Why did I let her do that?"
"Where did my money go?"
"Why did I leave my adventure shoes in Yosemite?"
"Why didn't I give a shit?"
"Why don't I give a shit?"
"Should I have gone to college?"
"Should I have left?"
"Why wasn't I drunk for that?"
"Why did I get that drunk?"
"Why am I still drunk?"

But my favorite regretful question of all:

"What happened last night?"