So it's my birthday and I will spend it laying around with blankets and sticky floors. A warning that testifies the volume of the afterparty. The length times width times height. The lightrail highlight reel.
entirely too exhausted to work on much at all, the brain cells dead or dying, revitalize with a too ripe banana and a late night long walk home, the weed freaks who get grumpy without a fix. will write later
And as always I think about Gandhi and his lack of needless material possessions and hug all of my things closer. The disbelief in present receiving, friend ignoring deviance. Throw me a line, man, tell me your whole story, tell me baby, what's your sign and the jazz will fill our elevators. Our elevating moods and widening smiles. The rap music heard from the stairway, a warning, a decision.
Experimented with a black out potion. A concentration of chemicals and tthings.... akin to taking certain medications only to reduce the side effects of other medications. A droplet and the night turns great and everyone falls in love with you and your eagerness to access and live this life. Watching plastic surgery infomercials and wishing these people would love themselves more. Not believe that the grass is greener, the other woman is prettier, the other school has a social studies department and more pools, where the sunsets out of view (southbound window) the moon rises up and briskly disappears behind rooftops, solar panels and intelligent design. I'm the architect, not the blueprint. You are the architect not the blueprint, get that through your head.
Nap through my birthday dinner. Obviously, I can cry if I want to. I can spend minutes thinking about how to present myself. I can shove pills into my stomach and waiting for the inspiration to come. I can imagine the types of things you do on weekends. I can shun you and lose interest. I can let the nuances distract me and fall apart at a cold rain. A soaking backpack. Now, sweat. Now, tears. Loneliness. Nobody likes you when you are tweeeeentty. My wasted day. I will tell grand tales of a fantastic weekend. Blink 182. Thrice. Moving Mountains. Crowd surfing people, noise complaints and alcohol bottles in the window that glow with ominous blacklight. Free from writing engage. the type of shit that makes no sense to read later but is still strangely captivating, maybe the expression of pure subconscious, with the governor destroyed, no way to cap max speed, run into kids who might be the only true lesbians on campus, looking to space and talking down to people who can't point out jupiter or name the tune drops of jupiter, or the size of our sun in proportion to the rest of the shit in the sky, the skateboards and longboards and miracles that seem to always be right around the corner, the homework machine, the hesitation that gets us all killed, the realization that gets us all killed, the voice lost by screaming at the rock show and all of those thousands of tiny cigars smoked, why does everybody always buy these? why did you all get the same vibe from her that i did? slut. ho. perhaps but that is not an uncommon situation around here, some girls lose themselves in the first few months of college and are as naive and drunk as they themselves they aren't, true are others worse off, pregnant or dead or with some unforgiving disease that puts an active healthy sex life underground, burial grounds for sexual prowess, the finesse and techniques learned and read in private articles, all the working and reworking of ideas that might have worked for a different person, but it is not all the same, it takes a while to really find that number (so fucking useless!) that spot that makes a stranger a lover at least for the moment, which is to say a snapshot of our time here on this earth, the complications that made my head ring, i cant answer that call, my legs are caught in the crosshead traintrack and i will be smashed once that whistle blows, the one that calls out at night, longing and curious, safe insured, the morbid thoughts that accompany any approaching city, the amount of unnoticed suicides in an east to west coast train route.... in other news, the drinking began at midnight, my legal birthday as they don't necessarily worry about birth-TIME. teleport a year into the future and i will be sitting in some tiny bar without a care in this world for much more than further alcoholic delirium. go get drunk with friends. the drinking should slow slow slow down. the parties die. where is my art party group? by the way, how the fuck do I join a student group??
I am a self-medicating music therapist, as both shrink and psycho. The self-indulgence, hey I know what this mental illness is and that I have it and that I can try all these different little things to try and fix it. But hey, I will just self-medicate, eat some fruit, take an all inclusive vitamin, the universal, everything everyday vitamin, with antacids and antioxidants, the celery stalks, the prey realizes, switch open a knife and scare everyone with paper thin grasp on reality, the shitty lost voice, destroyed by toxic smoke and bad breath, shake off the chills, just don't look into his eyes... Nearly that perfect disneyland, overpriced dream. I am at Whataburger for my 20th birthday dinner. I ordered the special, green pepper double burger, or something. Pay 32 cents extra for some honey barbeque sauce. Drink water, whisper to myself that I will change myself. Become a better human being starting now, this very second. Learning lyrics to lovely songs. Writing lyrics to terrible songs. There is no cure for procrastination save death by decapitation. Yelling. Throwing voice. Make noises consistent. Fail to call friends. Great old friends. Why???? What the fuck is the matter>
