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?"

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.

anger management

Which inevitably accompanies alcoholism.

I do truly hate you. You must know that by now.

Ugly casanova.

I miss Ace. Alright. Constant variable. K in equations. I don't wanna be soft serve, but summer is over. Summer bummer. I'm pissed for being bummed.

Some people think they're always right.

One day I'll have the balls for it, and you'll hate me for it.

This used to be a safer place, now I'm just pissed for everything.

"What could I possibly be happy about?"

dumps

"She's like a five-year old."

The passed two days. Goddamn. I hated having to sit still for hours on. I hated how many girls' voice buzzed in my ear even after they've stopped talking. I hated how many times I was told about how much fucking hair I had. I hated how hellish it was to endure. But fuck me for all the things I hate because I woke up this morning and felt sad that it's over. As much as I did cringe, after finishing my walk last night, I felt relieved and entirely grateful that Mikal chose me. I loved watching her do exactly what she loves to do. I loved seeing Tash and Kacie again because unlike all the other people there, they never talked at me to Mak. They literally loved me, whole-heartedly, physically into their arms. Hugs and hand holds. You name it. I haven't been that soft in...shit idk. I loved the feeling of accomplishment of not shitting myself or eating shit on the runway. I loved how concerned Mak was of my well-being the entire time because she knows my nerves can only take so much of people's BS. I'm glad it's over, but I'll miss it. That shit is a fucking high. For once, I understood fame. How fucking strange is that.

These are my feelings.

oeufs au plat avec jambon

"Why can't you want something that makes sense?"

On this forgetfully warm day, I wore a t-shirt, a flannel over, and a thick pair of jeans. My regrets are seeping through, one drop of perspiration at a time. I feel better today. Not like yesterday when all I can think was jumping off the balcony, while biting the filter of my cigarette, shivering and shaking from the unexpectedly cool night and weight of my chest falling down my stomach. It was shit, but I'm glad today is different.

Tomorrow, Mikal will do work on head. Specifically my hair. I am both thrilled and anxious because I have had this hair growing for so long that I don't know if I know anything else. But I do know that I want this. I also know not to expect a miraculous shift from it. Maybe it'll be cathartic. Maybe I'll feel alright for the next few days.

But now my stomach is boiling. Must be something I ate. Three bowls of that something I ate.

I once convinced myself that I made up the word 'troubadour.' I don't know how I convinced myself that, but I repeated it to myself for periods of time as my way of ownership. Stupid.

I'm still awfully wasteful with money. And still too lazy to save everything I earn. Lush girl.

horripilation

Wasteful

Hateful

Awful

Mournful

Hurtful

Falafel

12:26am

At this hour, Ace would be buying me Tacobell/Jackinthebox rn. She is the perfect wingman.

~I fell asleep on the couch. It is now 513am, and I'm hanging with the Roses~

It's not worth it. If I hesitate, it's not worth it. If it's for other people, it's not worth it. If it isn't for me, it's not worth it. I don't know how many times I have to get shafted/feel fucking shitty before I finally grasp the idea that it's not fucking worth it. Ever.

Kind of wishing I was in the Black Swan rn. There's no way I could disappoint in there.

"Do you have any advil? Tylenol? A rifle?" -on headaches.

Salt swell.

Lately, my coping mechanism for when I am home alone scared or am crawling around my house late at night or when I'm just have a scaredy pants moment, I think about how there's no reason to be scared because there's nothing paranormal that could happen to me that a human couldn't do worse. Humans can always do worse. Humans are the worst.

I have a sippy cup.

Finally had Umami. I dripped. Had a swell beer.

Nights are made for the brewing of misanthropy and misogyny. I really believe that. I hate myself and I hate everyone.

One day, maybe one day, I'll give in to being happy again. Like I did once before. That moment that changed me after high school. And I was fucking happy man. But I'm stupid so that only lasted a year and some odd months before I wanted to feel terribly again. I might always want to feel terribly.

My bed has not had bedding for a moment now. I really should do something about that tomorrow. Or now. Or never. Whatever.

Everyone is asking me about you.

I really fancy wearing black, sleepwear-looking clothes out for the night. They're comfy and excellent.

Turning red might be what turns me off from drinking shots (apart from the whole alcoholism bullshit and dying brain cells recklessness). I'm fucking dumb. Seriously, how and why am I still alive.

Everyone still asks me about you.

"I hate being around people who are sadder than me." Perfect.

How did I get those noodles?

I fancy that person. I find myself thinking of that person. But I am absolutely terrified of everything.

Six different ways inside my heart. Ye The Cure is coming out with a new album in 2014.

I hate you today. I hate you three times today. I hate you three times a day. This entry is really personal, isn't it? Unless they all are. I can't tell anymore.

Goddamn, I am always embarrassing.

what do you mean you made me a dashboard confessional mixed tape

The Rules of Attraction, a novel by Bret Easton Ellis (of the same author as American Psycho). Turned to film starring Shannyn Sossamon and that fella from Vampire Diaries and that other fella from Dawson's Creek. You will never actually know anyone, ever. Ever. What does that even mean?

waiting for my hair to dry, while my ipod plays on shuffle, and the song that I lost my virginity to begins to play. It was terrible, if you were curious. It was absolutely terrible and I nearly prayed it would end. Not that it was so bad as it was dull and stupid. Dull and stupid sex.

Long hair. Obnoxious, long hair. I might have developed a neck problem. Next week is Mikal's hair show. And I am terrified as fuck of walking down any runway. But on the bright side, hair begone.

A razor.

I nearly hit up Ace today. God damn.

Ran out of eyeliner.

Ye I'll probably miss my hair.

got the big bottle

I bawled everywhere. Like a sick, ugly cry.

My money went to pizza after being daydrunk. Sausage.

Mikal finished Orange Is the New Black. She did it.

We never got a proper family picture. I just wanted a fucking family picture.

That scarf is mine.

Tomorrow is the twins' birthday. We're celebrating with burgers.

When I saw that video, I got a little sad. Sad sads. Mostly from the shattering of a very wishful thinking. "I'm happy for you baby, but I don't wanna know." I was only smitten.

Don't like using the word 'juxtapose.' But sometimes I have to. Mostly because I can be a pretentious fucking mountain.

I don't love you.

I mean it.

Outdoor living room. We are honeycombs. She is a robot. And those guys are only human. They can fuck themselves.

I once knew a guy my age. We were friends. But now he's forty and creepy and desperate and disappointing.

Gen and I went ham to Doin the Knife Fight AND 505. But she had too much malt liquor.

Tits. Everywhere. I FEEL LIKE THERE ARE TITS EVERYWHERE LATELY. And I KNOW I'm an ass man.

I WANNA RUPTURE
I WANNA RUPTURE
I WANNA RUPTURE YOUR JUGULAR.

Bonani.

David, Catherine, and Marita in the Garden of Eden (and their bugatti and bars and beaches and arranged infidelity).

He named his lizard Wild, and he's her babysitter.

There are so many things we didn't get to do.

Someone break my heart. Seriously. Make me swoon over you and then stomp on my shit mercilessly.

I learned I like being bossed around. I'm a submissive masochist. Push me. Choke me. Fucking hurt me. If you push my button enough, I'll fight back (because I ain't no little bitch).

What if I get fired?

We bought Drodan a tiny tiny tiny bottle of Jameson so he can feel like a giant.

Luke dreamt about brother Jake dying and he help the dude dispose of the body. And he cried.

"She's going to come back," said my mother, as her way of saying man the fuck up.

Sof is tryna wax my vagina. She prolly just tryna see my vagina. But I'm shy and I ain't no vaginal-exposure ho. Damn.

I was pretty pissed about it, but now I'm glad it happened. Otherwise today wouldn't have happened and I would've had to be an adult. We all would've. But I got to be a baby. A huge fucking infant.

i'm dizzy and i don't love you i mean it.

must reevaluate life decisions

I'm tired of shitting.

The entire left side of my body smells like couch-butt and stale smoked weed. The right side smells like my sweet, sweet natural element.

Your loose jokes are inspired by the movie Mr. Mom, therefore your loose sense of humor is obvious and dry.

More than half of all my nights, I have no recollection of the shit I'd done and/or shit that occurred. Maybe that's why I can't write right.

I was informed that I punched a fella in the face the other night. That I wish I can remember.

Waterbeds inside bars make me focus on how much semen/vomit I must be sitting on. It smelled pungently like sugary semen slobber. Everywhere.

I saw a cute girl last night. But I'm a pussy so I'll always only see cute girls and never speak to them.

Must be a devil between us.

Dental dams. What is up with dental dams? Face condom.

"I will suffocate you with my asshole."

I really do love shitting.

head hurt

"Hi did you make it out of that bathroom?"

I didn't shower from hottubbing the night before. Now I'm at work with a very very very v v v minor hangover. I think? I'll get caught napping at work one day and I'll get fired and things will get weird.

Vagger plucked my armpits last night as one of her murky whims.  I could barely put deodorant on this morning. But it's alright because after the torture, I rewarded myself with a cream-filled... ... ...donut. 

I get annoyed of people and shit but I probably annoy myself the most (granted the whole self-loathing bullshit and all). Sometimes I think about shaking myself/slapping myself across the face. But as bad as that gets, Pinoys still trump that level of annoyance. Fucking Pinoys.

Sleep paralysis.

Tired.

I'll make pizza.

3:54am

Happy birthday kern.

The apartments recognize when we're colonizing the hot tubs at that one apartment. I nearly slept in my underwear in which I hottubbed/pissed in. I'm drunk. I have work in two and a half hours. I hate it all.

Luke is one of my most trusted people. I realized.

I have half a 40 left, and I'll take it down so I can sleep.

My buddy and I have a time limit as to when our separation anxieties kick in. My one and only softy.

Don't read this, but seriously, when my bro leaves, I'll be fucking insane and dull again. Over-looking her slander, she would never let me make-out with hurt hoes. I know that much.

It's four in the morning.

I'm feeling filthy as usual.

But happy birthday kern.

burst

Coffee piss.
"Hi, I hope you're alive..." She was always sweet to me.
I've been questioning the structures of simple words lately. Very simple, commonly-used words are starting to become alien to me. Like I'd never seen them before. Like I have the yips. Like choking.
I once made Naj list who she thought were the most attractive people in our first semester nursing class. She used a yellow highlighter, and I think she felt bad about it after. She also used to tease me about my embarrassing crush for some married angel babe with red hair. I'm really just embarrassing. But I really just miss dat dude.
Salt is making me swell up. Salt and beer and being a turd.
Po boy.
My belly is a very large drum. Like I'm critically competitive of my father's large belly. Would I still have friends if I was bulimic?
[insert nervous breakdown]
I thought about that guy I was shoving and shoved me back.
Sometimes things are alright. Very brief, few, and far between.
I know of a man named Mr. Boop, and he said something harmless and alarming to me.
Darlin', your head's not right.

correlate

Don't change that fucking song.

I started to get sad about it. All of it. This fling we're all having with each other.

Death dreams.

Slam piece.

Crazy Eyes.

There's officially no more virgins in the family. We're all a bunch of whores. Whores in America. Good thing we're not dating inside the family. But then again we're not a pack of Asians.

I get cocky about my friends. And I'm proud that none of us have STD's.

(Keep it in the family).

Purchase an 'I love my boyfriend' shirt to ward off the dykes. A great advice. Except I love the dykes and I hate all my boyfriends. All of them. All hundreds of them.

I'm sorry about your netflix...

Thought about edging and considered giving it a go. But then I thought about how pissed it would make me, so instead I took a piss and stopped myself before the last trickles. Close enough.

Pissing while standing up is very relative to touching myself. And that's really alright.

Just friends.

Rose and Rosie.

Mom and Dad.

Egg rolls and burritos.

Self-induced/self-indulging perversity.

I think I need new glasses.

Bomb ass pussy.

lacerate

I surrender to the shit.
Vagger wants me to eventually get married. She can't get over my past relationship.
I tried to sing like Alex Turner the other day. The mere impersonation made me feel ten times more of an asshole.
Soft serve days only lasts so long until I solidify into shithead again.
Yes, I do want to be heart broken. Ace gets it.
Caffeine. Nicotine. Adderall. Alcohol.
Explosive diarrhea.
I'm aspiring to be a spider's girlfriend.
Das found my ipod. No. Drodan found my ipod. Das hasn't given it back, and it's making me tick.
Why is farting not OK? -"Because it smells."
I was brushing my teeth the other night, and Mikal walked in, sat on the toilet, put on my brother's glasses, then sang to me "Remix to Ignition." Swell as hell.
I'm waiting for cancer. Is that unforgivably terrible?
The twins are homophobes. But if I ever go steady with a girl, I'm sure they'd be real nice.
Ace's slander is still haunting me. I don't ever want to be recorded by sleezebags while making out with girls. But shit, that bitch got me good. Hats off to you, dude.
I might be over DailyGrace. Maybe.
My mother and I have the same taste in socks.
Should I test out the waters of sobriety? I'm afraid I'll be constantly bitter. Na. Not yet.
"What do you want to eat?"
I hope my biological clock won't try and fight me. I'm not tryna push out puppies.
Die alone.
"When you're having a good day, just remember... There's only one to a coffin." -Vagger.

I'm a lush

and my brain cells might be dying with me.

Brain dead. Life dead. Dead. You'd like to be a dead ...what? That's stupid.

My buddy

turns 21 soon
21 soon
21 soon
21
soon.

I am delighted
because I am alcoholic.

pray and swear

For as long as I can remember, Ipods have been passed down to me. Like charity case. The very first time was when Mich let me have her ipod. I didn't understand ipods then. The little shit frustrated me. So I gave it away to Aiz. After that I had a mini series of my past boyfriends giving me their ipods. Dean let me have a hold of two. And Adrian just passed one over my way. After those relationships crashed and burned, I was always left with a petty break-up and a lack of an ipod. That's up until I fused my existence with Mak and she lovingly gave me her ipod because God knows she earned herself a new one that week I'd received it. It took me about four years till I perfected and entirely filled that ipod. YEAH I'M STILL MOURNING. But now that I have stupidly lost that beautiful little shit, I have just been passed another ipod (for temporary purposes). But for the love of God, I will purchase my own ipod in the next few months and pour my blood into it, if it kills me. I'm sure I'll go nuts with 160gb and it'll be more beautiful than ever before.... ......... ... .. .. . .. . . . . .. . . .....maybe....

(These passed entries [along with my period of mourning] opened my eyes to the mere fact that I am a little bit obsessive about certain things). 

I'm watching Scrubs till my eyes bleed, recalling all my major moment of failures in life.

Sorry baby

You just stir up my wild mood swings.

That's all.

These bitches,

I realize (not that I've never realized), are the root of my misogynistic inclination. I could rip my own ears off. Or punish my eyeballs with a freshly lit cigarette. Or simply, pull my fucking hair right off my fucking scalp. I better quit before my back snaps in two, bending for these bitches.

This is stranger than I thought.

i'm so sick of these sketches falling all over my floor. it's like stubbing my toes.

R.I.P. stuff

JS KILT DA CLUB

I'd like to dedicate this moment to acknowledge all that I have loved and lost. To all the things I attached myself to, poured my guts and butts to, and loved with all that I am. 

1. My adventure shoes. I lost them at Yosemite. Well technically I didn't lose them. I left them. After I jumped off the cliff at Rainbow Pool with Ace, we went back to the car to get changed. I was drying out so I took off my shoesies just outside my door. Ye we drove away and I didn't realize I left them until we were at some Mexican restaurant. By the time I realized, I was near in tears and I didn't even eat my food. I just looked down at my hands and...ye. It was weird. RIP little babies. They were the best shoes I'd ever loved. 

2. Secondly, and obviously a very fresh wound, my ipod. I literally just went through my entire blog (nearly [which also made me feel even shittier because I'm starting to get the idea that I was a better person before??]) just so I can find a picture of my ipod. I don't really know what to say. This one's really got me down. I'm pretty sure I lost it before or after I threw up on a bush in front of my parent's house. Ye I was just too drunk to handle my shit. I also lost a new pack of cigarettes withhhh my ipod. I've been home for four days, sulking, because of this. help. 

3. And lastly, for now (as far as I can remember), this cargo jacket. It's not mine. And I'm almost positive I didn't lose this. Vaggy keeps blaming me anyway but I really wanted to wear it often enough so that it could be mine. I'm not that torn up about it. But it still haunts me. Not much, but enough for it to make it to my list. Ye this is getting weird. I need to stop. 

I'm starting to have nightmares about my ipod. Man I am really in a bad way nowadays. Fucked up as fuck.

The loss of my ipod actually resulted in the onset of a new bout of depression. I haven't been this way since the failure of my attempt at a hopeless nursing career. I suppose I never really recovered. From any of it.

I just miss my ipod. It was the one thing I could unfailingly count on. Sad face of a small face for days.

Sick of it. Sick of me.

bitches i'd fight

aka my buddies.

Powell's

The excessively nice and kind state of Oregon, a charming and huge bookstore grabbed me by the throat and overwhelmed me with love. Hella fucking huge.

pipi

I have just spent the last two weeks driving up and down I-5 and stuffing my face till my stomach's content. I miss Portland. LA can suck my pipi. But now I am home, and the first thing that I did when I got home was pound a bottle of whiskey and chased with beer. My pals and I danced to This Must Be the Place for the thousandth time, and I got so plastered that someone had to carry me. I woke up with a hangover and my buddy getting dressed to leave for a photoshoot. Home. Sweet. Home.

Also I think I need to jerk off. I think I'm bouta. Then I'll drink, start my piece on Portland, pass out, then go back to work tomorrow. Sad face of a small face. Whatever, time to fap.

bby bby

cookaloo

pisses

jordro's coffee table and a coupla bitches

Portland

I just don't want to come home.

Work.
Drunk.
Work.
Drunk.
Dead.

you are a satin noose

It's eight in the morning and I'm sitting on my employer's dinner table, waiting for the kids to finish breakfast. It's ten times hotter in Lafayette than Fremont and I'm already contemplating turning on the air conditioning. I'm tired from the night before but not hungover. I kept promising to black out but never actually achieved it because I was just that tired. But I'm always this tired. Tired all the time because my youth is at its closing ceremony (if it hasn't had it already). This is what it feels like to have make money. And I thought having money would make me feel secured even for just a minute. But I'm now more stressed about it than ever before. It's tiring. I'm fucking tired. I feel old and dead. And I never having anything better to say.

seymour

The capitalization (or lack thereof) suggests that it should not be taken seriously. But the punctuation signifies that I mean it.

vonnegut on sartre

why do you keep talking about my baby

kid sux

Pornography

Dis person

Wut grad

Wut

deadbeatsummer

Hey. Come and rot with me.

Bastard.

Everyone is all fucking the same.

stupid shit

shut up

tall sluts

shut up

Das ma kilt