dec 22

Progressive guitar licks on a hand painted blue strat. Strap came off and I duct tape the input on the amp. It is a ghetto rig but the songs to keep are being written as we speak. Shy sexual young girl who does not know what a hookah is or how to play beer pong. Some other devil came out long before the others and if her looks had anything to do with it ill be damned. Hey babe. The blacklit dance floor. The potential for some late crazy exchange. The type we remember. Too often the type we forget. The lovely atmosphere of colored moving lights, some random, some repetitious, causing all designs on both corners to always change. The slightly movements of our eyes catch the intricacy as if we were studying under a microscope. If the house sways, it will probably smell like beer. Take out your measuring tape and your stethoscope and let's get a feel for this room. Let's analyze the history of the posters. The lack of resale value. The parents trapped in a conundrum. But it has become a long term goal in my life to help my parents move out of this mansion for two people. A house that is comfortable yet creates a rift. We all have our own spaces and our own lives. A sad lonely mother. A tired busy father. One sips wine one sips rum and orange juice. One has kids and minor work responsibilities. Paying bills and making sure that I can continue my education. One has 30+ kids and a new location to put team equipment. The donation box is full and finally some positive changes are being made. Both suffer the same silence and can't handle the house without the kids. The ghost of memories, we are running through the lawn, now that the fort has been overgrown. Built by a father figure I will never understand. Dad of dad. I never know how that dynamic worked out but I know how open I am with my parents and it is an anomaly what we have. How it is condoned. I have chosen the lesser path. One with discipline only every now and then. Incredibly, cigarette tobacco has entered my lungs today. This is beyond me. Some foreign hand with dark claws offered me the lighter. Some zippo with a faded design. Indicative of seasonal use. Progression. From here to there and back. Write about me puking and dying in the bathroom. I write about the feeling you get when you cannot forgive someone. That heartwrench. Destructive force behind evil images and thoughts. The ones they should put you away for. The thought crimes. Worthy of sin. Checkmarks in some giant, universal notebook. Naughty or nice party. We dress to unimpress. We dress in weird fashion to attract positive attention. The trend setting crowd the sees everything 5 minutes in the future. While us simpleton are stuck in the slow and desolate past. Or present rather. Still listening to Against Me! and miscellany of metal bands that no one else cares to here. A generation lower than At Night. Somehow someone does not know. Take a shirt. Advertise. Let them know we once existed. The album that could have been a ticket. Now passed off as some funeral handout. The event list. The event horizon. We are dark and spiraling in dark thought patterns. Avoiding boredom like the plague. But without any quantifiable evidence that it exists beyond our imagination. We dont know. So you dont know. The damage we cause our brains on regular basis. The energy in a crowded room compared to the energy in a different comfortable room. Early poker night. 25 people packed heavy and hot in a small garage space. Somewhere to dance and to drink and to be merry. To fight and to fondle. It does not happen, for me at least. Too timid. But there is a casanova somewhere, crawling to the surface. My personality awaits his arrival and the shenanigans he will pull. This new version. Still in working stages. In the prototype phase. the northwest the southwest. It will all really be incredibly similar. What if I don't want to hang around people I went to high school with forever. College friends have separate intentions. (get it in). Knowledge. Openmindedness. We hope for the best and cross our fingers when they are not clutching the waist of beautiful women, or the crutch of a hand rolled spliff, the half tobacco half marijuana joint. Once I meet this casanova, I will spend time learning his techniques and apply them at least to make girls smile in my direction. Write a resolution based on character. My habits. The tobacco, the marijuana. Controllable. Depression. Controllable. My social instability..? This must be manipulated or else I will never enjoy my peers, anywhere in the world. At 20 I should write a novel. Be in perfect shape. And flirt with women like its a career. Hours 7 am to 3 pm and sometimes 6 pm. This sounds like a terrible fucking transition. Extended high school. Calling us out. I wonder what it is like on the outside, this time of the year>