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There's no tomorrow. What now? Where do you go? What do you do? Do you fuck everything in sight? Everything with a leg or two? Do you apologize for everything you ever did? Do you cry because the world doesn't revolve around you? Do you pray to god to save your filthy soul? Do you call everyone you ever knew and tell them that it was good knowing them - even if you don't mean it? Do you turn on CNN to see how much time is left? Do you call your mom? Or do you go on with your day?
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Just another apocalyptic vision of mine... if everyone was launching their nukes - killing and killing and killing, would I want to stop them? Would I let them get what was coming, or would I save all of our sorry asses? It doesn't seem so simple when it's just hypothetical. Funny thing is, in reality, it would probably depend on my mood. The fucking world would have to hope that it had been kind to me, because my vengeful spirit might just blow it up. It's sort of scary to think that there are actual people with this sort of power.
Fireworks soar to the sky, never looking back. Everyone watches, everyone waits to see what will come of them. Then they explode. In a split second they become a flaming ball and for a moment, they are beautiful. But gravity quickly takes hold. They are broken as they fall like fiery tears. No one knows and no one cares who it was that cried them. Everyone walks away as the embers become too dim to be visible, as they finally reach the ground. You step on them. I step on them. Everyone steps on them. I feel like a firework.
We have instruction booklets for everything. Directions for our computers, handbooks for our cars, even books on how to be a good mother. We go to school to learn how to add, to integrate, to understand the inner workings of our own brains. I've never had a problem with that, I've always believed what I've been told because it worked. But if I ask how I'm supposed to live, everyone has a different answer. I can't think that everyone is right, I can't think that everyone is wrong. It's best not to ask, I guess. It's best just to live.
Everybody is crying in my world because everybody just lost somebody else. That means that no one's living in my world except somebody and everyone else. The music keeps playing when the movie is over, children are stepping on four-leafed clovers. No one tells them who is lucky because no one is lucky anymore. Churches are burning and Jesus is crying but god bitchslaps him and says "Stop whining." Everyone fights for land and money, the bomb exploded and everyone's running to see it. Another one hit. And another one. There's no longer any confidence that someone's lookng over us.
It's not that I don't miss you anymore - I still think of you... a lot. I've just gotten past the stage where I ask why or sit in disbelief and think that you might come back. Nope... I've accepted it and I'm acutely aware of the facts. The message from my brain just recently reached my heart. So now I just shrug, because there's nothing else to do. It'll be a while before I see you again, and we'll never have a chance to repeat our last few weeks. And there's nothing... at all... that I can do about it.
I feel like a machine that is ready to break. My joints are rusty, movements slow and jerky and I'm anxious - inexplicably. Machines don't feel, though. I hardly can. When I get like this, I speak only in metaphors. I am an addict without a fix. I am paying for a high that I never had. I'm the trench of a swell. I'm a virgin sore from fucking. I'm so odd sometimes. It's not like I don't realize it. I just don't care to try and control it. And by "it", I mean "me." I'll just sleep it away.
If god made all of us, do you think that he ever sits back in his almighty easy chair and thinks... "Man, I sure fucked that one up," or "I'll need to fix that glitch in the next generation." I'd think that being all-knowing and all-powerful would make you sort of a perfectionist. And since none of us are perfect, I would think god must feel a bit inadequate sometimes. Or it could be that he is in denial - "They would be perfect, if they'd just choose to be, I mean, hell (does god say "hell?"), they have free will!"
I feel like vomiting. My stomach turns its own knotted fabrics. The pains of life are too great for it. It can't stand my mother. Neither can I. Responsibility is not power. It's not even the road to it in her world. Every mistake that I make is reason for reprimand. Everything I do right is overlooked, expected. I reap no benefits that she speaks of. The best I can is all she ever asked, until I made what she thought of as a mistake, and that was a judgement call. This is my house, she burnt down my home.
Alcohol is a funny thing. It makes some people funny, it makes some people into assholes. I'm already both of those things. Sure, it changes me, but I don't become a different person. It makes me more outgoing, I'm more likely to hit on a girl, and I'll dance if I hear music. I'll laugh more, act stupider, but I'm mostly the same person... I think. I've been told that it tones me down in some ways, too. I guess that's because I'm smart enough to know that I may sound stupid if I try and make fun of someone.
There's a part of me that is telling me to go and have fun, hang out with other girls, try to get a sort of girlfriend thing going. It's the summer before college, after all. I should live it up. I'm always glad, though, that nothing actually happens because either I'm unsuccessful, or I just didn't try. Because after a little bit of thinking, I come back to you. I think about how I really care about you. It's okay if you're not doing the same thing. I just wouldn't feel right moving on quite yet. You're just so beautiful.
You decided to talk to me today for the first time in quite a while. I wasn't quite sure what I should say. Small talk. Blah blah blah. I'm not all the comfortable speaking with you. I don't know what to think. I said that maybe I couldn't find anything to talk about because I was uninteresting. I don't really believe that. Maybe it's more along the lines that I am uninterested. But I'm not so sure about that, either. Maybe it's that you had made it clear to me that I was extraneous, and now you want to talk.
There's something wrong with this summer. It feels uptight and stressful. I don't feel like it should be half over. I've hardly done anything. I feel like my mom is looking over my shoulder, I feel like I have a world of things to do to get ready for college. I want to puke. I want to stop and sleep. I want to run away. I want to be lazy. I want to hang out with friends. I've hardly even seen any of them. To make things worse, Silvia is in Romania and has been for something like a month.
Sometimes there's no one out there. Someone's not on my side. Nowhere is calling out to me. It's telling me to come home. I can't think of anywhere that I'd rather be. No one is looking at me. No one's by my side. Nothing is what I get for it. This wreck is where I reside. I can't think of anywhere else that I belong. Silence resonates in my head, hung low. Everything sinks into everything else like rain on paper. Ink is always running when it can. Sometimes I wish the story of my life was written in pen.
I slept so much today. I didn't talk to anyone on the phone to do anything. I called Pete and Sam. They never called back. Oh well. Erica wasn't home. I gave up after that. I didn't care. Sometimes I'm content to just stay home. Sometimes I just don't think that there's anything to do even if I do leave. I'm not sure which it was today. It's so hard to tell, anymore. Sometimes I wonder if anyone cares enough to call me and want to do something. I think most people are already cutting ties. They never said "goodbye."
I stole these ideas, but whatever... I'm going to run with them. We're like rats in a cage and everytime we touch it's like we touch that bar and get shocked and we never fucking learn. It's not a pretty place that we're heading to and I don't like it. I hate it. Burning bridges all around me, and I'm without a bucket, an excess of water. Not a lot of things can push me to the edge, but you sure do. Living with you is hell, talking to you is like fucking a porcupine, and I hate fucking porcupines.
Babysitting my kid sister shouldn't be too tough. She's nine... she likes watching TV, it isn't that bad. Until my mom comes into the picture. She's breathing down my fucking neck. She is always calling... sometimes she tells me what there is to eat in the freezer and refrigerator. Like I'm a fucking retard. Believe me, mom, I've no trouble figuring that out. Don't lecture me on how to be a parent - because I'm not one. And anyhow, by my estimations, you have some pretty big faults in that department. You have a lot to learn, but you never will.
The Dismemberment Plan rules. They rock my socks way the fuck off. Thing is, I got my One Last Slice... and I want another. The Ice of Boston is muddy... and I slip on it every time. Dancing up on stage was the shit. I was absorbed in the music. Every song was great. If I Don't Write is such a great song... I love the whoever requested it. It was especially good because we were right by the bassist.. that bass line makes the song. I was never asked for a request... but everything I wanted got played, anyhow.
I hate stupid advertisements with a passion. Snakes shed their skin (some number) times in their lifetime. This is one reason that they don't have zits. Well... let's think about this one for a minute before we kill ourselves for having experienced something so retarded. Humans also shed their skin... constantly. I'm not sure, but I'd bet that we shed it a lot more often, too. Snakes don't have zits because zits are clogged pores. If I'm not mistaken, snakes don't have pores. That would be a reason they don't have zits. Well, I guess you can kill yourself now.
You were the bed of roses I laid in every night. You held my head and cloaked my body and kissed my cheeks. I smiled while I slept. I can no longer smell your petals anywhere. You've gone and hardly left a trace. Pictures hardly seem real because what made you you was your laugh, how you spoke, how wonderful you smelled. I lay down to sleep on concrete. There is no give, there are no smiles, there is no smell. I am naked and my shell freezes and cracks. No one kisses me, no one keeps me warm anymore.
Sometimes I need to disappear and cease to exist. The world becomes my own and I am refreshingly alone. I hide in my room or my car or my mind. I close my eyes and think of something happy because the world out there isn't always ready for a smile. Sometimes I think of watchimg movies in my living room, or going to the beach. Sometimes I think of playing music with friends. Sometimes I think of disappearing, ceasing to exist, taking the world for my own and being alone... hiding. And then I think that it might last forever.
It might seem a little odd to think about the end of the world, but I think it's interesting. I mean... the end of the human race, not necessarily the total destruction of earth. What would survive a mass extinction? We'd all like to think that we would because we're the master species or something... but let's face it - we depend on way too much to live through something massive. It's going to be the cockroaches and the ants. So next time you step on one and say "That's right you little fucker!" just know that they'll have their day.
There are no formal "this is the last time I'll see you before I go to college" meetings arranged. I say that it's because I'm a guy. Guys don't do that sort of thing. The only person I did that with was Silvia. That was over a month ago. I think that beyond my gender, it's also because I'm not close enough to anyone that I really need to express that finality. It's all but over with most of my friends, anyhow. This summer has been shitty in that respect. But I have found some other people to be around.
Being clever doesn't seem to carry the weight it should. Rather, it's more effective to just be an ass an call someone a faggot or something like that. I mean, at least be creative. If you're going to go that route, at least say "fairy" or something that you don't hear every day. I mean... an insult is an insult but everyone can say "faggot" if they want to. Where are the rewards for being creative - cuntflap. That's a good one. Let's hear it for indecency. How about stupidface? I prefer third-grade humor to "faggot." Just be creative with it.
Jesus Christ, some people are so disgusting to me. They make me want to vomit. They make me want to fuck my own eyesocket. It is all about you. All about you. No one else exists so don't worry about being considerate. Don't call back. Don't give me a heads up. Stand me up. Stick it to me. Fuck me over. Keep me in the dark. It would be different if I didn't always come back to see if you need anything. You're all so fucking rude. Every excuse in the world will always add up to another ruined night.
Sometimes I want to jump in my car, fill up on gas and drive. It doesn't matter where, but I just don't want to turn around. Go and go and go. On and on and on. I'd find out what the top speed of my little sports car actually is, and I wouldn't stop for anything or anyone - not even myself. The gas would eventually run out, and I'd coast back down to zero. I'd get out of the car and leave it. Walk until I passed out, sleep until I starved. But I'll sleep it all away. Call me a dreamer.
It's hard to think that I'll be living my own life soon. I wonder who I'll be after I leave everything that I know. With all new influences, without the control of a mother and the structure of high school... where will I go? It's no secret that I'll lose contact with most everyone that I know, but will it really matter? Am I am who I am right now? Or is that all about to hit the wall and the fan right about now? I guess I'm going to find out what and who I really want to be.
I'm not going to worry about stepping on toes, here (I seldom do), but it never ceases to amaze me how people just need to cling to a god and a religion. I mean... do you really need to live your life based upon what essentially comes down to the assumption that this particular fairy tale is true? Where the hell does that put you? I'm not saying that the ideas are all bad... but people sure love to twist it all around. The mindset required to be truly religious is pretty scary to me. But hey - everybody's doin' it...
When I saw that today's featured entry was one of Jeff Koyen's, my initial reaction was "That's sorta tootin' your own horn isn't it?" But then I thought about it and realized that I would have a hard time not featuring my entires like once a week because I like what I write and I hope that I'm not the only one reading it. Anyhow, his entries are good and I like reading them. The one featured today seemed random... but it worked. That's not always easy. If I was Jeff, I'd feature this entry, too. But that's just me.
I'm so sick of doing this shit day in and day out. I'm so tired of this fucking house. I just want out. I want to be gone, so very far away. It's not the people, it's not the place. It's not the dog, either. It's everything and the fucking situation. It's the pressure and the nausea. It's the anger and the regrets. It's the shaking and the crying and the emptiness and lonliness. It's everything that I don't want to feel anymore. It's nothing at all. There's nothing to love, nothing to hate, nothing to feel, nothing at all.
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