shit man, my bad, am i projecting again?

i project at my truest form when i start to run my dry erase markers dry and when i stick crudely-noted post-its everywhere. or when i talk shit about no one in particular on pieces of paper or used napkins. or when i binge on downloading music from sketchy sites which are probably equivalent to dark, dirty hooker alleys. or when i make coffee simply to decorate my room with. or when i write tasteless haikus on everything. or when i deliberate tasteless haikus in my head and burn it in there. or when i sink into reliving the shit storms of all spaghetti girls. or when i try to define my life in my head. 

i should do improv. 

s/o to and lol @ mother's day feat. dad

on mother's day, my father single-handedly destroyed our celebratory dinner. our family is commonly known for our dinners, and the last few years, vagger has been taking over the cooking. this year, my mother's request was a very tasteful pasta dinner with vagger's trademark zuppa toscana. mind this, my father does not get down with pasta. my father doesn't even get down with cheese. as jerk of the year, my father was an hour late to the dinner because he decided to take a very long shower. also mind my sister's short fuse box, she was already losing it just waiting to finally eat. so we all sat down the table. my father, idiot of the night (i'm talkin' foot in mouth, salivating ass hat qualities) decided to power through the pasta dinner by complimenting my sister's creations with sheer sarcasm. every ten seconds--zero exaggeration--he would comment on how delicious the food was. and how he could eat this shit every day if he made it. for style and all around swagger, he'd change things up and ask her about the recipe and the ingredients whilst throwing in another fucked up compliment. she rolled her eyes and told him he was annoying and that from that night on, he was no longer invited to her dinners. i couldn't even look up the table to put a picture how tense the dinner was. i slammed my head down on my plate and ate like i was somewhere else. i felt like i could've broken my neck, wishing i'd dissolved into my seat. the best i could manage was telling him he was getting himself into severe trouble. she retorted with terse, snide comments such as "why don't you just eat at China Express." i laughed at that one, nervously. but conclusively, she topped her exit with a very controlled "shut the fuck up" and "you are so annoying." then she ran upstairs and i was left to deal with the wreckage of the dinner table. everybody left as soon as they'd finished eating because who the fuck wants to soak in that strangling dinner. it was my mother, my father, my grandmother, and me left on the table. i would've left but i didn't want to leave my mom. i saw her shoot him a very stern look. a look that i rarely see her give. the glory of the moment, i went to the fridge, popped a beer, sucked on it till i was numb, and sat back on the table. if you think my father had stopped talking after the chef's wince-worthy exit, think again. he ran his mouth until my grandmother started cleaning up the plates and doing the dishes. he ran his mouth even after i finally went upstairs and saw that vagger had been crying. his sarcasm did not once surrender. he dug his hole, kept digging, then took a nap in it with a smile on his face. it had been, by far, the dinner that will go down in history (in my history as i'm sure nobody wants to remember that fatherly fiasco). 

epilogue

my mother requested a photo after the meal. my sister was still upstairs hating my dad. she denied the request until i told her that it was for our mother. i told her to clean up her face and steady herself for one photo, so she did. the weight of the air never faltered. the blinking of the self-timer pressed on every second on the clock. after four shutter clicks of our wooden smiles, we all dispersed away from each other and i continued to have an affair with my beer. then my mother, that sweet woman, threw in another request for us to all go bowling. it was almost amazing to believe the kind of composure my sister had to manage. she rejected the request, at first, but ultimately gave in because IT'S NOT FATHER'S DAY, DAD. so we went to bowl. some of the tension stayed at home, but not entirely. also mind that beside my brother, my father's favorite is my sister. since he got the boot of the night, he tried his very best to get on my good side. he even went so far as asking if i wanted a beer. we went to the bar. he bought me a beer. he bought himself a beer. and he bought himself a shot. this was our coping mechanism of the night. bowling awkwardly while feigning celebratory enthusiasm with intermittent bar trips. 

IT WASN'T FATHER'S DAY, DAD.

hats off for being an unapologetic asshole

ps. thinking back, it was a really good time (for me)

pps. i am my dad

very rare to medium but never well

nobody has ever been worth the pain

a crippling belief i can't expel

idiot friends

happy butt day matthew scorsese 

we, the idiots, violated an entire party

our one friend, the idiot, violated asses and tits at the party

my one friend, an idiot, took a power nap for an hour

my two friends, the idiots, decided to be the comeback

our one friend, the idiot, earned the vintage punishment of dick tats for passing out early

myself, an idiot, wrote 'idiot' on the back of the idiot's favorite shirt

my one friend, that idiot, got locked out of the house when everyone passed out

our birthday friend, that idiot, violated us in the morning by greeting us with his bulge

we, the idiots, had hungover breakfast burritos then violated the beach 

just a bunch of fucking idiots being idiots 

daddy's home

grab daddy a beer 

my bulge is expressionless so don't misconstrue

no rinse. repeat.

you know the drill.
this is the drill.
drill pickle.

the second of may marked twenty five years since the release of this album. this is the item i'd grab if my house was burning down. ace is a god for giving me this record. it was her first purchase in paris. she walked everywhere with it. 

i'll go cry now. 

cope, you fucking idiot cunt

fucking cope before you pass out from your own self-righteous fumes

"i'm happy for you baby, but i won't want to know" 

woolf vs plath

fill my pocket with stones, stroll to a nearby river, and drown myself

or

seal my kitchen, blast carbon monoxide, and place my head in the oven 

?

they both look like people i know. 

but apparently, i can't respect a female author unless she's already killed herself. don't ever quote me on that. (no one ever quotes me on anything, btw). i'm variably sick in the head. i've been daydreaming about being a satirical thespian, alright?  i've been thinking about getting people to convulse in sheer amusement. choke in hilarity. or just kill 'em dead. but consider my lack in any form of comedic focus. i'm not very funny. i will make you laugh anyway (most likely due to my threatening undertones of murdering you and/or myself if you don't laugh [or you just truly feel sorry for me]). why am i not getting paid for all my artful and free form entertainment? i should be getting paid for my words. or no. nah. this is not a voice to be heard nor is it a voice to stand on its own. 

my sporadic and astonishing self-confidence vs. my consistent and comfortable self-deprecation 

can you handle it? 

can 

you 

handle

it 

track 14 of Confessions, album by artist Usher, 2004  

i tried to flush my mother's shirt down the toilet

but you've probably already guessed that i couldn't recall a damn thing.

i awoke to a text from vggr telling me that our father questioned her that morning as to why i tried to flush my mother's shirt down to toilet. she asked me why i did it. then i asked her if she really expected me to know the answer. that same day, i woke up to my bedroom floor scattered with pieces of paper towels. i slept till seven pm because i was still drunk at three pm. around nine, my mother entered my bedroom and sternly asked me why i tried to flush her shirt down the toilet. i froze because i didn't have the nerve to say i was too blacked out to know the reason of my action. 

why the fuck did i try to flush my mother's shirt down the toilet? 

i've been avoiding leaving my bedroom since. 

typical. 

internal monologues of the 22nd century

at 3 pm, i shot up from my bed and dug excruciatingly from my mind as to what i can last recall. that's an enjoyable game i play with myself on weekends. 

at 3 pm, i'm almost certain i am still relatively drunk. what am i thinking with this sangria bull shit? i can't live like this. 

at 3 pm, i fought to stay awake. i nailed myself to my phone. i cursed. i had a talk with the crystal head on my shelf and told it that i can't live like this. i even referred to my past marijuana troubles. remember those days? when i was stoned literally every moment of my conscious life. now i pass. i pass. i pass. i couldn't live like that. 

i boil potatoes for at least two hours. if there's anything i can't stand, it's under-cooked potatoes. just because i'm eating the fruit of the earth, doesn't mean i want to taste the earth. the earth can eat me. butter me up. i'm 40 proof. 

yesterday late afternoon, i sauntered around the park in grievous paranoia of the birds roaming about. my pulse and perspiration took hold of my leisure time. my saunter became a chase scene. i'd gotten so bad that i convinced myself there was a giant turkey stalking me. what the hell is this bird thing about? i can't live like this. 

i think i've decided that i've given up. 

i think i mean it.

i can't live like this. 

expected nausea

what's my name? 

these are my pastimes off the top of my brain 

bleeding

limping

boiling potatoes 

drooling on my pillows 

starting fires 

vandalism daydreams

prioritizing head wear 

office chair 

sniffing blown out matches 

aggressively scrubbing my legs in the shower

squatting in the shower

attempting/failing perfect push ups 

winking at myself 

insisting sobriety 

undermining encountered idiots 

patronizing the unintelligibly unaware 

separating (gradually) from false laughter tendencies 

pretending to know things i don't 

pacing

tip-toeing 

internalizing regular and circadian occurrences of my mortal life 

externalizing morally favorable thoughts 

contending for formidable optimism 

being 

good mourning

today is the first day all week that i didn't stay up until seven am. i, in fact, awoke at seven am. although greeted by a screeching headache (which i earned from having roughly four beers last night [i know, that's what i get for taking several consecutive days from alcohol]) i managed to stay awake and catch up on my very guilty internet obsessions. i will never divulge such information. not even here. not even to my friends. and i promise it's not pornography. unless i refer to The Cure's fourth studio album Pornography, then no, my internet obsession is not pornography. surprisingly enough, for all you folks who firmly believe i'm a raging pervert. i'm only mildly perverted with the intended impression of being wildly perverted. do you understand me? (the fourth wall, since addressed, has been following me around). 

kneesock is dead. i checked on her last night during yet another bon fire and found her on her back next to all her dead victims. she lasted six months in my bedroom, rarely getting fed, and she couldn't last in the backyard for a month. it's not her fault. self-healing can only do so much when you're out in the world. RIP kneesock, you beautiful, inspiring, and lovable bad bitch. may we someday meet again, if my potentially budding spirituality allows me. 

speak of the devil, i strongly encourage a distance from what you think god ever said. (that bitch is a troll). i strongly encourage faith in yourself over a faith in destiny, fate, and/or god. how often is "and/or" followed by "god"? not often enough. god is not definitive, but this is a sore subject. don't fuck with other people's religion, self. this is my advice for myself. that's not a battle i (or really anybody) could ever prevail. i kind of feel like i should take back my strong encouragements. but i can't seem to hit backspace... 

i am down to one and a quarter of a can of pringles. pray for me. but pat me on the back for not killing it all in one night.

my optimism is lasting lately. 

it's ten am and the world is my oyster. 

(isn't this refreshing?) i want to tell you to eat shit, but something inside me is whispering that i should wish you an excellent day. because you deserve it. because you've been reading my charming self-pity for years now (i assume years now). 

have an excellent day

you menacingly average human being

this is my diet

i've been pestering vaggy to buy me a can of pringles and she came home with three. sympathetic sister. i keep taking selfies tonight because i wanted to do something, so instead i'm hanging out with myself and my cans. i'm starting to resemble corpses. word on the street is that around the age of 20 or 25, chicks gotta get on that pap smear shit. i don't even go to the dentist anymore. i won't even go to my optometrist to get a stronger prescription for my eyeballs even though i can hardly see shit with these glasses. i think gyms are pretty whack and flexing is for the blissfully ignorant. if i'm raining on anyone's parade, i'm a nice enough guy to offer my umbrella (that's just the truth). although you're an idiot if you let rain ruin anything for you. i've been doing push ups because my arms are bothering me, but you'll never catch me flexing, i promise. most things in life are self-inflicted. most things in life are self-serving. all of life is self-absorbed because this is a cool illusion (maybe i mean delusion?). as a future parent, how confident do you feel about avoiding poisonous pedagogy? personally i think i'd have a rough time due to my fucked up morals. hence my refusal to procreation. i'm only twenty-two, i'll have plenty of time to change my mind if it must. i'm encouraging it not to be swayed by my biological clock though. honestly, if i reproduce, i'll inevitably doom the poor bastard unforgivably. this year i turn 23, and i won't lie, the thought makes me panic. the war between me and the intimidating age of 25 has officially commenced. stay tuned to watch me shine (my god i'm optimistic tonight). my palms are damp from thinking too much about my body. my palms are damp from thinking too much about that broken thing on my desk. my palms are damp from thinking too much about the heat of the summer. but mostly my left palm is damp because i kept it inside my pants for so long (had gotten too comfortable). 

eat a 

nevermind. 

s/o to jul

last saturday, i classically got obliterated during isaac's birthday party. i don't know what happened and how poorly i behaved, and i don't want to know. but shout out to jul for trying to carry me and then dropping me, leaving me with a cool bloody scab on my knee. also another shout out for being a good sport about puking on his sambas. i felt so bad that i offered to buy him a new pair. if he puked on my pair, i would have been relatively upset. but not really because if there's anything i understand, it's obliteration and defeat. 

also s/o to jaeger for encouraging me to drink more tea than alcohol. i'd been drowning and repressing my regrets in inappropriate amounts of tea. i'd been actively drinking for weeks prior last saturday, but i woke up the following sunday and spent most of the day in and out of the bathroom anyway, sicking out demons into my toilet. it's tuesday now and i still can't look at alcohol the same. 

sometimes obliteration is good for me. 

cheers if you think that's pathetically sad. 

cheers. 

metafictional murmuring

it's nearly 6am. i'd just spent a night in front of the fire (like most nights lately) being as casual as i can manage near other human beings. i prefer it over getting drunk alone in my room. but who really likes to get drunk alone in their bedroom? (no, i really do enjoy it sometimes). 

i'm going to try and not be so bitter on this one. there's been an influx of my negativity in my entries, and though i do enjoy my natural style of writing, i'm going to attempt a better mood. i won't promise it'll be a world too positive. but i will try. give me a cookie for it. validate my effort. you're my only reader. i correspond directly to you now, reader, because i don't think i'd ever tried this before. i may have. i don't know, i can't tell now. this is me breaking the fourth wall. this is you reading on. 

now that i'd addressed the fourth wall, my mind renders itself barren. i really have nothing in particular to share. i just wanted to freshen up the molding of my deteriorating entries. but now i'm nervous and the tension between us is one-sided because i'm producing these words and you're just looking at it. i refrain from using the word awkward, but to be honest, this is a little awkward. somehow i managed to make things awkward between you and me. keep reading, maybe it'll get better. 

after our bonfire, my buddy and i went on another long ride to nowhere. we talked on because we really only have each other to talk to in absolute comfort and security. that is my friendship with mak. we talk because we understand each other. and tonight (i suppose this morning), i realized that had we not known each other all these years, i would probably feel more alone than i do now. i'll always be thankful i found a friend like her. it's one of the few things in life i didn't know i needed until i had it. but you know that, don't you? my range in topics is quite slim and i only bring up so many people. very few people, actually. but you know that, don't you? i talk about myself and my feelings and my troubles and all of that bull shit. this is my blog, i can cry if i want to. 

by the time i reached home, it was already 6am. that's when i picked up my laptop and decided to aimlessly type. that's what led me to addressing you now, reader. come to full circle, i am back to awkward. this is somehow giving off a creepy vibe, in my opinion, and i want to say i won't continue blogging this way for my future entries. still with me? i doubt it'll get better, but keep reading anyway. 

i swear i'm not trying to be clever. this isn't clever, this is odd. i've built a relationship with my blog. it's a seven year relationship, and we are going strong. but i hadn't considered much the readers of which i am now completely aware i have. i still try not to consider it so much when putting in my thoughts because it keeps me from writing what i mean to. thinking about the people--i'm sorry--thinking about the reader, you, makes me use the backspace a lot. i can't write an entry properly if i consider the audience too much because i end up second-guessing everything that comes out of me. like now. like this. i'm questioning whether or not i'll actually publish this. got ten on it that i will. got five on it that i'll revert it back to drafts the next day. 

my relationship with my blog is my most constant relationship. i'd known it longer than i'd known the person i share almost everything with. if anything, this is the extent of how intimate i get with a relationship. (that's not necessarily true, although i do feel more comfortable typing things out here rather than talking to most people. but even so, i hardly share too much). i'm more comfortable here than most instances. in fact, i think about existing as a blog. what if this was me? a little reminiscent of the movie Her. but instead i'd be a blog. i'd have thoughts and feelings and i'd document them here, and you'd be here (hopefully), keeping up with the nonsense that is figuratively my mind. and figuratively, i'd still have my personality as i have it now except i wouldn't have to physically type this out. i'd be like the internet. or literally live within the internet. but if i lived within the internet, i suppose i wouldn't have all the troubles that i have now as a human being. or maybe i'd have more troubles because human beings are ten times more insufferable, irritating, infuriating, and annoying on the internet. i, as an internet existence, would have to deal with that shit. my mind is wandering, reader. i don't beg you to pardon me, but if you're still reading, well keep at it. 

it's been nearly an hour since i started this entry. i listened to my mother's footsteps upstairs as she got ready for work. i listened to her footsteps downstairs as she got ready to leave. i listened to the garage door groan open, and i listened to the heavy sound of a bowling ball exiting our garage the moment my mother opened it. then i watched carefully through my blinds as the bowling ball rolled to the middle of the street and back down in the gutter. i watched my mother back the car out of the garage. i watched her notice an unusual object in her rear view mirror. i watched her slowly creep to the object and i watched her identify the said object. i wondered whether or not she was going to step out of her vehicle to retrieve it. after a few moments of her evident deliberation, she continued backing out of the drive way and driving forward down the street. when her car was gone, i considered going outside and retrieving the ball myself, but instead i continued typing here my thoughts on existing as my blog. then upstairs i heard my father's footsteps shuffling down the stairs. i heard him open our front door, then i watched carefully through my blinds to see my father retrieving the bowling ball himself. examining it as he walked back inside the house. i listened to him reinstate the ball to its original place in this house. i figured my mother gave him a call to notify him of the ball's morning adventure because she was running too late to handle that herself. i also figured my father assured the ball a better position so to avoid that incident in the future. then i listened to him shuffle back up the stairs and into their room. now it's quiet again, except for the birds' interval morning chirping. now i hear my brother waking up for school. this is when i'll stop listening. because if i keep going, i'll end up typing every single thing that happens in this house until i pass out. i don't want to do that. i don't want to bore you. although i doubt i haven't been boring you with these anticlimactic narrations. if you made it pass this particular paragraph, then you're doing your job as a reader. i'll remember to give you a cookie. 

my eyes are finally drooping. it's seven something now, and i think i'll try and sleep. or i'll sign off stating that i'll try and sleep, but i have ten on it that once i'm done here, i'll lurk the internet in some other way. besides, my mind is still racing. it's a slow race, but it's going. also, this has officially been one of the longest entries i'd ever done and i really do doubt anyone made it this far. or if any of you even bothered. this is a longer read and this is very costly of your valuable time. i don't mean to waste your valuable time, but you made this decision. no hands were coerced here. you are my reader, but don't worry, i'll try not to let this happen again. this has been strange. this has been new to me. i feel as if my blog and i have reached a whole new level. i also feel as if you and i have reached a whole new level. this was interesting. catch me bitching on the next entry. you did excellent. 

ps. i hope you didn't think i'd really let you off like that. 

eat a dick. 

nocturnal emission

my subconscious has been on a freak streak. 

oh no... 

life lessens

don't take advice from someone whose life constantly crumbles. don't take advice from someone who lets their life crumble. don't take advice from a misanthrope. don't take advice from a self-loathing misogynist. don't take advice from a hard ass. the emotionally disturbed. don't take advice from someone who denies humanity. who damns happiness. don't take advice from someone who has a competitive nature against jesus, or god, or any supposed greater power. don't take advice from someone with an existential complex. everything is coated with a film of first impression charm. with an unusual wit. with the false pretense for self-confidence and carelessness. don't take advice from someone who is relentlessly self-absorbed. don't take advice from someone who seeks solace in the evil and the wicked. who seeks solace in sad songs and absolute silence from the rest of the world. who refuses to talk. who refuses exposure. 

i can take my clothes off all i want. walk up on stage and let the spotlight on me. i can stand still, and the audience may look if they please. but i won't ever say anything. i won't ever let anyone in on it. i guess because even if they all laugh, i'll still feel like they're the butt of the joke. that is, as long as i don't ever let them in on it. 

social abnomality

i didn't realize how severe my social skills have declined until cheb visited us the other day. our contrast in character stunned me a little. she's highly gregarious and understands the norms of average and colloquial communication. she lives in santa barbara for chrissake. deltopia exists to her. i don't mean to compare myself to a raging college student. it's the fact that i couldn't hold a nonthreatening, simple conversation. my mannerisms are whacked. i can't process how to respond properly. my diction is improper and indecent. i am off-putting, i realize. i inflict my own discomfort to others in hopes that it'll create empathy between us. i mistaken it for clever, but really there's just never anything better to say. my nerves grab hold of me and my rationality is screaming bored. simpletons still so creatively tell me i'm fucking weird. probably because they will never be ready for this jelly. 

belljar

much to my surprise, i am capable of living horizontally for the remainder of my young life. i'll have to google later whether or not one can die of bed aches. maybe if i get started on a pressure ulcer, i can work my way strategically. although, i'm certain my liver is shriveling at an exponential rate. faster than i'd ever challenged it before. cheers to that one. fortunately, my urge to have a smoke is almost always trumped by my undying refusal to be vertical. my lungs must be thankful. however, catch me in a social situation and i'm rejecting oxygen with a hand up. if oxygen was a sleazy guy at the bar, i'd be the prissy bitch princess to roll my eyes and say "ew." if i was the sleazy guy at the bar, cigarettes would be the hot slice that i'd be rubbing up on. 

things are weird. 

i used to think it was adorable seeing and hearing my baby finches. now i cringe a little at even the thought of them and i feel like throwing them off a great height. if i let them go, they'll surely die too soon. if they stay here, i might end up letting them go no matter. i can't stand it. i think i hate them. i thought about this as i was giving them food and water. thought about how i hate these things that are incapable of hating. i hate them because i can. because i have the God-given right to hate. all that God gave them is the unquestionable way of being. God blessed the birds, but God didn't bless us. we're embarrassing and we're at the bottom of all life forms. someone convince me otherwise, i'd murder that debate. i'm very stuck on this belief that humans are purposeless. kill us off the world and the planet will continue to thrive, if not better than before. kill off the flies and the food chain fucks itself to oblivion. humans are adjectives. humans are opinions. humans screech about existence because we were taught that it's all about us. humans are social. humans can either be well-intended or ill-intended. we are both God and the Devil. we'll either pray or complain, or maybe we'll simply turn to our phones and convince ourselves that we shine as bright as our phone screens. 

vanished

mimosas in the morning

bloody marys in the afternoon

dirty gin martini before dinner

red wine while cooking

chardonnay with your dinner

whiskey sour till after hours

beers till you pass out

lousy and legs

the last time i had a cigarette was the last time i saw mikal. 

it's been ages. 

i can't even tell which i miss more. my friend...or her. 

i've been making myself laugh aloud lately. 

HEY

if you see this

just remember

BEEN TRYIN' TO MEET YOU

dum dum dum dum dum

you'll like the second picture more, i like the first

scoundrel

this is my face in 2014. this is a capture from my webcam in 2014. this is the face that looks like it's on the verge of tears. this is my default face in 2014. this is the shirt i stole from mikal in 2012. this is the shirt i wear when i used to have severe hangovers. this shirt is warm and smells great because it just got back from the wash. that's prince in the back. this is my hair in a bob 2014. that's my ear peeking out. this is not a fashion statement, i just never imagined myself with a bob. 

potential

this is my face in 2011. this is a capture from my webcam in 2011. this is the face that looks like it's trying to make an impression. this was my default face in photos i take of myself in 2011. this is the shirt i cut up myself and wore with everything. this shirt was ratty and my favorite. that's my green wall in 2011. this is my long hair in 2011. my ears never peeked out. this was probably a fashion statement, i just never imagined i'd cut it all off for a bob. 

chase with an orange

I profess that I am attempting to be more honest. By honesty I mean the kind that's thinly veiled in sarcasm, cynicism, and crudity.  This is my sincerity. But you already knew that. 

refer to my previous entry

talking shit about a pretty sunset - modest mouse

this is one of the songs in the past that i always clearly identified with. after composing my entry last night regarding the blood moon, i was immediately taken aback to this song. this is what it reminded me of. this is the first thing that popped into my head when i hit publish. the second thing to pop in my head was how i had a (humorous) underlying hope that the people staring up at the moon would pull their neck muscles. i realize it was probably brute of me, but i was amused by the thought anyway. more amused when my imagination took a lap and i digressed to this scene of jump cuts where people were just screaming about their pulled muscles. every neighborhood, a series of people were placing their hands to their unmoving necks in confusing agony. the third thing to pop into my head was how i wanted to film that. no one makes me laugh like i make me laugh. 

(i'd completely forgotten what my intention was for this entry. i've just been so into addressing the bull shit in my head. this is another one of those bull shit moments. also, probably because all my creative insistence are focused on typing shit out here. it's not even creative. it's just nonsense. i'd rather type out nonsense here than slit my wrists trying to start, continue, or finish a story).

(Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight Looking kind of anxious in your cross armed stance Like a bad tempered prom queen at a homecoming dance And I claim I'm not excited with my life any more So I blame this town, this job, these friends The truth is it's myself And I'm trying to understand myself and pinpoint where i am When I finally get it figured out I've change the whole damn plan Oh noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight Talking shit about a pretty sunset Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon I've changed my mind so much I cant even trust it My mind changed me so much I cant even trust myself)

blood moon

"look at the moon right now."

for years, i obsessed over the beauty of the fucking thing. i would run outside of my house just so i could break my neck staring up. my heart would expand and everything around me would mean something wondrous. i'd tell a lover to look out their window and witness what i was witnessing. for years, the moon was this cosmic shrine of my hopes and dreams and sentiments and amazement. i had never imagined myself to feel otherwise about it. 

today, a friend informed me of a total lunar eclipse that will occur tonight, around 1245. i have fifteen minutes till then. and still i'm laying here in the dark trying to decide if i want to strain my neck to see. i'm out of cigarettes so i wouldn't have another reason to step outside. then it dawned on me how much i was convincing myself to care. i don't care. i do not give a fuck. thinking of it now, i can't tell if it bothers me or if i'm relieved. it's things like these that remind that i wasn't who i was before. things that meant the world to me then won't mean a thing to me today, or tomorrow. i have severed myself from all the things that stir my emotions. i want nothing to do with world and nothing to do with how bright the moon will be tonight. let me lay here in the dark, face painted with only the glow of my laptop. 

i'm not sorry that i no longer care, i just wanted to address it. i also just want to address that while i was deciding whether or not i should try and look at the moon, all i could think of was gravy. and how badly i want gravy. and if i should get myself up off my bed to make some gravy. i don't even have potatoes. i just want gravy. that's the kind of person i am now. the kind of person who values gravy more than the moon. 

are you judging me? of course you are, you simpleton prick. you think you're better than me because you worship happiness. well cheers to you, you happiness striving simpleton prick. 

mardy slam

let's have a beer.

let's shotgun the first, belch for ten minutes after, then sit the fuck down.

i feel like arguing. i feel like inappropriately raising my voice.

my state of being argumentative can be described (by my self) as unbearable. when i am in my state of being argumentative, it ultimately means i am confident. i am unstoppable. i am out for heads and i will claim them. because otherwise, i would never open my mouth in the first place. i'd be present simply for the pleasure of slipping my clever sidebar comments. never argue for the sake of argument (but also never take my advice, ever). i'm not manipulative, but i feel strongly about my ability to manipulate. so strongly that i am villainously referring to my debating as manipulation. i don't sign up for debates if i don't think i can even remotely sway the opposing party. fortunately, i have a tremendous grip on defeat. if i can't deliver better than my challenger, then i understand to graciously accept that i couldn't persuade better than they. humorously give the finger, then shake hands. i can't say i've never been sore about a defeat, because i'm obviously not perfect (is that obvious though?) it just means that i'm pissed at myself for not prevailing. the thing about arguments is that rights and wrongs go completely out of the window. arguments become about who can deliver their point better. (if i were to become a lawyer, i'd be the crooked kind, OBVIOUSLY). i could be supporting a very wrong statement/law/belief but still find a way to win a debate through skillful tactics and an impeccable conviction. the rules of arguments just means be smart and be compelling. most of the people i know are the same way. i know a lot of argumentative people. the people closest to me are all as unbearable as i am. my father raised me to stick to my guns and aim at heads as exquisitely as i can. so when i'm in, my god i am in deep. 

ps. i have mad respect for people whom i find better than i am at arguments. 

pps. the amount of confidence i have today for even publishing this entry is beyond me. 

stay tuned for my self-deprecation to return. 

riot room

i faked an orgasm when i lost my virginity because it felt like the right thing to do. also because i was praying it would soon end. it didn't end soon enough. it didn't end at all. i'm still losing my virginity right now. to this very day, it goes on. 

faking laughter is the same concept to me, except i'm a lot more generous with giving out fake laughter. after losing my virginity and faking a fun time, i never faked it again. (that might be a lie because i'm pretty sure i faked it all through that relationship. how. fucking. sad.) but like i said, i prayed it would end and it still feels like it hasn't. 

i was fake laughing the other day and it brought back all my fake feelings. i faked a lot of feelings as a child and as a raging hormonal teen. but i suppose even now i still fake it. fake it till you...nevermind.   

i'd always been suspicious of my friends whom i thought were suspicious of my laughter. if they can tell it's fake, then they must really know me. i'm an enigma, aren't i? can you even tell if i like something or not? i spend most of my time talking shit about literally everything, no matter if i'm partial to it or not. i also spend a lot of time lying (but i'm tired of saying that). that must mean it takes a strenuous amount of brain work to comprehend and analyze all the things that i say and do. i've grown used to eyes squinting the truth out of me. i haven't a poker face so much as i have only my face. the silent deliberation on the faces of the people that i know are now very familiar to me. i can tell when you don't believe me and i can tell when you do. don't worry, i don't ever judge you an idiot. i merely tell myself that i'm fantastic. "REALLY???" and "ARE YOU SERIOUS???" are the few most common responses to my fakes. usually, i'll only smile and let you draw your own conclusion. those are the best days. when i never really had to lie at all. you lied to yourself, you idiot.  

but also

s/o to the ones who don't need strenuous brain work to know. it must mean it's so natural to be around me that your brain doesn't have to hurt. i love you (probably?) 

guess how many times i've faked an "i love you."

go ahead. 

misanthropic mornings

my extended family finally moved out. as a goodbye present, they decided to greet me with the fact that they--scratch this. it's petty to share but unbearable to keep quiet about. to cut it short, i got robbed, ok? the kind of robbing that only family members can execute. i really do hate families. i detest blood relation. it disgusts me. 

intimacy issues pour out of me like sweat. and i'm not one to perspire like an average human being. i tire and lose my breath, but you won't catch me breaking a bead. unless you...WELL. nevermind. if i were to attempt a typical persuasive essay right now, i would avoid topics such as euthanasia, gay rights, and/or abortion. my belief in abortion is like a religion. my own religion. i'm sure if i ever had to go through it myself, i'd repress and lose another chunk of my natural emotional projection. but still, i'd willingly go through with it no matter. which brings me to my point. if i were to write a persuasive essay right now, i'd persuade your emotional soft ass not to ever have your own family. it'd be very personal, which by default i'd lose credibility. but fuck logos anyway. my devices in rhetoric break all the rules (i bet). my device in rhetoric would be this seven year old blog. (remember in 2011....2012? when i tried to terminate my relationship with this damn blog? hilarious bitch). this is not an essay so i won't go through the motion. this is an entry and i'm insisting to make a point that i don't want a fucking family. i don't want to squeeze out my own puppies just so they can grow up and resent/disappoint me. i don't want to have to go scavenging for a dumbass husband just so he can help me produce my own dumbass puppies. i want to die alone, choking on a burrito. i want to die alone, slipping in the shower and breaking my neck on the edge of the bath tub. i want to die alone in hopes that my cat will eat my dead body, all of it, rendering me a missing person. no one would suspect the cat. and if you did, he'd glare at you till you change your mind. then the cops would go looking for me, without a map. and i can only hope to instill a characteristically satisfied smile on my cat's face. i'd be eternally thankful to have my remains inside my god-like cat. and you'll never see me again.

cry for me, i died for me.

ps. if you ever catch me sweatin with my own family, have a heart and hire someone to assassinate me. and mark my words, i'd be important enough to be classified assassinated. in the words of a pile i know, "i'm a star, bitch." 

truman

"Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to read aloud."

you make me laugh but it's not funny

watch this movie.
live your life by my words.
i'm horrifically credible
because
i'm so very sad
(sad face)

stream of consciouscockness

eat a dick. 

i drank mandarin flavored absolut vodka last night, which produced one of my most regretful drunken actions. this is why i don't trust flavored vodka. this is why i don't trust vodka. martinis should be with gin. everything should be with gin. 

the safest place in the world is my room. i am currently having a relationship with my room. i can't tell whether it's a healthy relationship or not, but for now i am adoring my time with it. 

but also, the contents of my bedroom has taken its toll. i have a typewriter in here, for the love of satan. i have a record player. i have a shelf of books that, i'm sure, deem me pretentious in every which way. i have a poster of mother nature vs. industrialization. my sketches are proudly up on my wall (courtesy of my proud mother being proud of my art). records are hung for further decoration. i have a framed map of...i can't even recall. i have a stack of tapes and leather bound journals on my desk. i have candles. i have vintage luggage. i am pretentious according to my bedroom, and i never want to leave this place. this really must be the place. the same place animals go when they die.

last night, i gravely considered my chances of moving. to LA. with my girl brother. to struggle. the thought excited me. the serious consideration excited me. it's too safe in my bedroom. it's too safe anywhere around me. i can't be safe for too long. because otherwise, everything i've ever proclaimed and everything i've ever believed in means squat. (also i can't write here. not like this).

podcasts. i'm into podcasts? i want to do a podcast? is that bizarre? if so, how bizarre? the more bizarre, the better. i'm into podcasts. let's talk. 

it's very easy to look very homosexual with short hair. if i don't watch myself, i'll be gay for the day, all day. i don't have a problem with it so much as i don't want to fall into a template. i don't have a template, and there isn't a single goddamn template in the world for me to fit in. i dressed like johnny cash last night and i liked it. i could've been mistaken for someone in an indie band or a lesbian in a semi-pop semi-indie band (tegan and sara DIIIINNNNGGG). i hate myself for what i've given the world to perceive me as. but also, i hardly give a fuck what i think of myself. why would i ever give a shit what anyone else is to think of? eat a dick. 

also, my best advice to any guy is to fuck better than your dick. if you can't fuck better than your dick, you can hardly fuck at all. i don't want to say this is why i'm into chicks, but those bitches can hand you an orgasm without a penis. that's impressive. that's fair. that gives me hope. thank all gay girls for giving me hope. aye. fuck better than your dick. your orgasm means nothing if your girl didn't get it. don't you know that by now? 

s/o to my ex lover for being great at lover. good job at lover. if i ever lover someone who can lover better, i got fifty on it that i'll roll over in my own grave when i'm dead. lover. 

i'm not honest and i'm not open. the things i share are things unclassified private. i'm a liar and i get told it nearly every day. the stack of leather bound journals on my desk contain no secrets. not a single notebook or anything at all contains my secrets. that's how terribly i trust the world. everything stays with me. everything dies with me. it's a grave for a reason. you idiot. 

eat a dick.  

it's cool to be regretful

*laughs alone hysterically*

*drools*

it's cool to be vapid

the age of technology bred a pile of awe-inspiring prodigies with the prowess of roughly 200 words per minute. dispossesed of any sterling content and concept, the prodigies move forth without ever actually coming to a conclusion. i am personally taken aback (with astonishment and utmost respect) by the kind of banter one could only find in the best of reality television show. with words so ardent and eloquent and vocal and undeniably dynamic, i am, with each entry, instantly stirred and stimulated. like being moved by the real world (preferably las vegas season). 

i'd propose a toast, but i haven't any flavored vodka. 

i have merely my arrogance to cheers with and to choke on. 

sensitive and gross

shout out to the cliche fucking ache in your chest

sorry about the soft cute shit
it
just
reminds me to be excited for the summer,
even though i'm certain i'll find a way to hate it

hello

i have a slight attraction for zachary cole smith

jaws that could kill the human race

portrait of disappointment

pretentious fucking fucks

my friends are a slew of pretentious fucking assholes. great people. slight allergy to evident sincerity. sweet douchebags douchin' the douche. fortunately, the majority of our conversational topics involve farts and poops. level-headed. down to earth. 

bless you

stay arrogant. 

yzam appreciation post

my capitalization skills have abandoned me long ago. i'm over it.

today a buddy of mine woke me up from my afternoon post-sleep nap and bombarded me with presents. he neglected to use my front door so i pulled up my blinds and told him to rip off the screen of my enormous window. through the threshold, he gave me the gifts one by one, like the fucking princess i am. (had i still had long hair and the whole situation would've been too insufferably reminiscent of fucking rapunzel). but whatever. he gave me a typewriter, the giant poster that used to belong to buddy Jarred (father of Shasta the dog), a few records (one of which was Abbey Road and i noticed he had two copies of it), and a book about childhood trauma (which he disclaimed before handing it to me so not to offend me). he also left presents for mak. on top of that, he decided to hand me a scarf to give to my mother as a token of his gratitude. and that's the kind of friend he has always been. as much as i would like to just slap him right across the face sometimes, he has been a very good friend. i never thought much about how much i appreciate him because...well i don't do that about anyone (anymore?). the house is gone and he's living in castro valley. i'll miss the place (i'm starting to think that this isn't an azam appreciation post, but the house appreciation post). fuck these fucking parenthetical fucking shit. SHIT. doing appreciation posts really fluster me. i'm literally physically very disoriented and uncomfortable right now. i just wanted to express that as unnerving as he is sometimes, he's a great friend. he's not dying or anything. this is just uncomfortable. you know what fucking else? when he left today, i could barely manage a thank you. and then i thought about how terribly i manage my thank yous. i am so fucking uncomfortable with feelings. what the fuck am i going to do with myself? I'LL FUCKING TELL YOU. I'll crack open that book about childhood trauma and try to figure me out a little. if it's dumb, i'll set it on fire and tell yzam that he's a piece of turd. 

bye house

and my final selfie in that reliable bathroom

april showers won't bring me may satisfaction, bliss, and/or happiness

don't ever get caught writing about your dreams. save that for a conversation with someone who cares enough to listen. no one gives a shit. 

i've been forcing myself to willfully choose wine over beer. (forcing myself to willfully...what [it makes sense, you're just really judgmental and i'm just really insecure]). delicious as fuck beer is dictating my life, and is also dictating the velocity in which my gut is expanding. i mean, wine is still great. it's just better waking up the next day after you've been fucked by beer. it's less painful. beer is like accidentally sleeping with your best friend. pretty awkward, but it's less of a headache and you might even stifle an awkward laugh. whereas wine is like sleeping with a total stranger with an STD. you wake up with the astonishment of life residing literally inside your eyeballs. like getting pounded on the head with bad dick. it's hard to laugh awkwardly because now you have an STD. alright, i'm not sure that these metaphors are at all accurate. in fact, i know they're not because i killed a bottle and a half of wine to myself last night and woke up with these very pestering but very senseless thoughts about my comparison of the said beverages. my brain is looping and hopping through hoops. i got twenty on it that i'm drinking beer tonight. 

ps. i spent most of the late afternoon yesterday trying to pry open my last bottle of IPA with my lighter. i own about four bottle openers, but i was very determined to finally master popping a bottle with a lighter. the only thing i accomplished, unfortunately, was creating a pile of scratched-off plastic shavings from the lighter on my chest. i couldn't fucking do it. i tore the lighter in shreds. i resorted to a bottle opener in the end and fucking chugged in defeat. i'm a disappointment and i know it. 

eat shit. 

the ending

everyone i watched it with hated the ending. personally, i thought it was perfect and fitting. so perfect and fitting that i decided to purchase two bottles of wine to numb the pain of reality. (i just killed the first bottle and im still not alright). 

blubbering day dream

the amount of times i think about when thanksgiving will bless me with its presence is inappropriately maniacal. i am constantly thinking about thanksgiving. i am constantly thinking about mashed potatoes. i am constantly craving a transient day in which i inundate my existence with massive amounts of food. there is nothing in life more fulfilling than immersing yourself in said things. find me impregnated by juicy pieces of turkey. find me drenched in soup. find me suffocating in mashed potatoes and gravy. fucking find my plunging my person into a vat of starch and carbohydrates. it's nine twelve in the morning and thanksgiving is making me question my sexuality. 

dated march thirty-first, marks the continuity of an eight-month thirst

my life in a youtube video

i'd been spending a lot of time on the internet. who'da thunk it.
i've made a soupy mess.

regret number two

that baconator. don't get a baconator. when you're wasted as hell, don't order fast food. let your face be red. let your face be wasted. don't order a baconator. unless it's mouthful tales, it's not worth it. 

good night everyone. 

unamused

I just realized how relentlessly my homophobic grandmother insists every single one of my guy friends could end up with me. She's not having it man, and I want to set my house on fire.

Is it such a tough request not to be bothered? I wanna start a band and name us Upset. Just a bunch of upset people in an upset band pleading not to be bothered.

Still out of coffee. My day is off. 

me as a teenage boy

i tried to sleep in, but my room is too clean for it

10:12 am

my bedroom

it poured out this morning. maybe last night, i can't say. but the sprinklers are on and i have fifty on it that if my sister saw it, she would've bitched about the drought again. she keeps bitching about the drought. she doesn't do laundry for inconvenient amounts of time because of the drought. she really wants people to care. classic. 

frederick, i'd like to have my coffee now. we're out of coffee. nonsense. you'll just have to run to the store and fetch some more. 

all of a sudden, i am very aware of how out of touch i am with reality. the majority's reality. not my reality. my reality is a fucking dream. my reality is a hellish dream where i feel i have a chance to be truly myself. and by truly i mean lethargic, unreliable, unresponsive, perverse, irrational, and inebriated. i fantasize about the absolute contentment and satisfaction of doing and being literally nothing. about being a passing thought. the kind that glimpses then evaporates. at this very moment, what i wish to be is time. i wish my existence was time. i wouldn't need a human vessel because i wouldn't be human. i'd be an idea. humans measure me with clocks and watches. i would dictate their very lives without being held responsible. blame game can catch me if it can. also, i'd present a very false understanding of my existence. i am not linear, but you'll sure live your life accordingly. i would be of the essence and you will have regrets. if anything, the devil might just be disguised as our concept of time. what a brilliant fucking joy. i commend it. 

catch me sweatin in a snapback lately

swim through the crowd for me

be quiet lowlives

stop talking

s/o to kern

rip charlie that cute dude

And I shot the story because I didn't hear it that way

And it's hard to be a human being
And it's harder as anything else
And I'm lonesome when you're around
And I'm never lonesome when I'm by myself

And I miss you when you're around

i never really want to be awake, sober, or alive

water

sexual tension turned me into the devil.

monogamy

if someone doesn't hold her hand, she might lose her mind. i thought it was terrible of me to think, but what's even more terrible is how well it rings true to me. 

maybe i'd just been alone too long. i might've forgotten what it's like to have someone look at me with the way they feel. i always say i'm bitter. bitch i might be, but i really don't think so. soft is rough and i'm not tough enough for it. i don't need anyone holding my hand just like how i don't need to practice a religion. those aren't the things i need, and i don't know the things i want. 

to be perfectly honest, i started to perceive monogamy as such concepts: regular sex and a possibly false sense of security from solitude. from my own experiences, being with someone has had me very lost in a very creamy sauce (no pun intended [maybe]). i was all cravings and all needs and i screeched them out like nothing short of a brat. i'd like to say i never understood what it meant to be in a relationship, unless how i perceive it is really how it is. if i may, i'd classify myself only ever being in one relationship that could've been the kind of something that everybody likes to smile about. the kind that people like to know about. the kind that meant something, or whatever you want that to mean. just don't get me started on love, please. i'm not belittling my past, i just have very little faith in myself in that way. i feel better when i'm alone, nested in my twenty-two year old cave, self-soothing. that's what i always lose in relationships, the capability to self-soothe. i begin to nurse this expectation of being saved or pardoned or carried or tended by the person i'm with, when in reality, i will still always be responsible for myself. i loathed that about myself. 

don't mistaken me for someone who thinks that relationships are stupid. succinctly, my point is that they're not for me. not now, maybe later. maybe when i find God. if i find God. got twenty on it i won't though. some people are meant to hold hands. i'm sure one of these days, i'll try to hold someone's hand again, but for now, i'll just stick my hands down my pants and shrug. 

embarrassing admission

ever since our first trip to portland, i'd been stuck on this album. stuck worse than i was on AM. that passed. this hasn't. i just don't give a fuck ok? so into you by tamia featuring fabolous

pouring portland

Why can't you indent? I want to indent. 

We arrived in Portland around two in the afternoon. I felt sick with caffeine and rotten with snacks. My stomach wailed. Jawsh and Isaac bought food from the pods. I watched them eat. Tried not to. We were so dead we went back to our room and decide to take it easy. Spent about an hour looking for a liquor store (very stupid kids). Isaac and I got wasted. Jaws played fucking League of fucking Legends and tried to distract us by letting us reign room service. First rule in Portland: NO LAYING DOWN TILL NINE PM. I jumped on the beds. "Who jumps on beds anymore?" "I do," I responded. Had the worst Chardonnay in the world. Tasted like the swamp. But I'm almost certain I was pretty-face plastered. I hate Plaid Pantry. Do you understand? Isaac and I passed--died--crossed the other side at exactly eight fifty-eight, if I remember correctly. I woke up in the wrong bed at one in the morning. Tried to go back to sleep, but it was dark and they were snoring, and I was starving. I took a shit while taking a call with Mikal. My phone died so I sat in the dark on the desk that I claimed my office. For a while, I watched them sleep. Not as creepy as you imagine, probably. Then I watched the rain a while. Then I found a bag of popcorn and tried to eat as quietly as I could--I failed. Finally went back to sleep around four maybe five. I had a nightmare about a fucker named Dennis Demure. If I ever meet a Dennis Demure, I swear I'll find a way to have my hands around his fucking throat. Watch him bleed. Lick the blood from my fingertips. Then I'll gradually start killing my friends... I digress... 

I won't delve into all the details of the rest of the trip, because what kind of a shitty blogger would I be if I committed to sharing all the damn details? I need my mystique. I need to choke on a damn mystique. 

covers on covers on covers

original

cover

 

cover of the cover

 

__________________________________________

original

cover

cover of the cover 

buddy

beers for years

I found a place I really like here. Somewhere I wasn't so uneasy. I wake up bored and uncomfortable every day of my life, then proceed to being bored and uncomfortable the rest of the day. Today wasn't so bad. I just had to get up.

You're away and all, but I heard that you said you gotta water your grass. It made me less sad about stupid things. I nodded my head in very sudden agreement. How optimistic of me, I thought. Bad ass. ITH. Damn I feel alright 

im in Portland

im in Portland. 

vggr's poo gays

she's been into dreamy shit,
pretty sounds and shit
maybe she'll never be into dissonance,
but at least she's got the right taste to fine tune me

thursday still chipper

no one has come in to bother me (and bad as hell, i've left my door unlocked)


i should probably ride my bike.

i'm awake but i'm not up

i had a good dream. good enough to be content when i woke up.
i need a road trip. that's what i need.



here

this isn't shoegaze--this is suicide

that new hell smell

and so my flesh continues to rot inside the walls of my bedroom...

today's top story

i spent about an hour peering out my blinds every two minutes at seven pm, checking to see if my burrito has arrived. forced my blood relative to buy me chipotle. i think she feels sorry for me. which is why my requests nowadays are typically granted. shit, i'd feel sorry for me too. in that really sad, pathetic as fuck way. it's hilarious because i am in such a chipper mood. mostly because i also think i am pathetic as fuck, to the point of it being ridiculously comical that i just can't help but laugh. what a cheery mood. unfortunately, i do this almost every year now. february rolls around and i redeem my hermit permit. it gets people worried, but not quite enough. i lose a lot of touch with people. i text roughly three people on occasion, when i'm not too caught up in a tv marathon or analyzing all these fucking songs in my ipod, or sketching a picture that i like, or writing sarcastic entries in my journals, or HAIKUS. my god, i live such a brilliant life. personal hygiene is still right outside my door. i'm thinking it's time i stop boycotting showers because i'm really getting dizzy sitting here with myself. 

me at eight in the morning: you getting up today?

me: probably not.

me: alright, go back to bed you. sleep tight ;)

me at noon: you sure you're not getting up? 

me: ye i think so.

me: alright, back to bed you :*

me at three pm: bad fucking dream man. i might be hungry.

me: it's alright, you're not hungry. maybe just a little tired. maybe a nap?

me: you're probably right, see you for dinner maybe?

me: sure thing, sweet dreams 

me at six pm: orgy nightmares. what the fuck. 

me: have a burrito.

me: thanks. 

me: eat up, you've got a long night ahead of you.

*chain smoke, smoke weed, chug beers all night*

*repeat*

self-soothing

-empty the contents of my bag, scatter them on my bed and toss away the empty bag onto the floor
-lay out blanket or beach towel on my floor, scatter charcoal sticks and drawing pads
-step on my belongings
-the sound of locking my door
-remember to put on headphones (on loud), to ease the death of an auxiliary cord
-watch videos of live performances (trash talk/enjoy)
-shotgun bottled beers (heh)
-sipping
-fetal positions
-force nap

everybody's talking 'bout the stormy weather

every time i listen to daydream nation, i am reminded of how i'd like to be a little bit younger. (probably just so i could feel like my behavior is excusable, or something stupid like that).

romantic as hell night, it's even raining outside

jesus.

here

indoor hats and outdoor hats

casualties of the day:

eventfulness
sustenance
recreational involvement
personal hygiene
my auxiliary cord
the aux input on my record player
my entire day + night
some self-respect
"time"

ok well

more pthtc

the only commitment i respect is the one i have with my room. it takes a magnificent amount of energy and willingness to leave my small space. i'm very boring and despondent and unappealingly lifeless. i went out last night. stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. for some reason, i tried to recognize a face that i forget no longer associates with me. my face widened and stretched to find the same lines it had before. i tried to make my eyes the way they were before. but for the inappropriate amount of time that i molded and sculped my face in the bathroom, i couldn't find the expressions i was looking for. then i remembered i'm different. i remembered i don't know how to be what ever it was i was looking for. devoided of my own reflection (the one i thought i had), i exited without pissing. 

i bet i'll die with my head down. i used to joke that if i die in a car accident, i'll be found dead with my chin dug into my chest, focused on my ipod, or something.

brightside: at least i'm not addicted to heroin.

here, watch this.

deadbeat winter

deadbeat spring
deadbeat you get it

I'm just such a hard worker

*bodyroll*
*flesh rots*