957-1017
Yesterday after my sleepless night. My day. Learn about drug scares and systematics in regards to species then discussed a novel and quick and deliberate passion. I came back for lunch to order transcripts. Then left again. To nearly dose off learning about character development and then an introduction to a google docs project. Pretentious. I bit my tongue. Somebody's sweetheart in a subtle floral dress, maybe with a genuine interest in the subject that I generally lack. I can't skip a class without thinking about how much money I am wasting. So I don't skip classes. I want to talk to her. Say hello and least and smile. Not shooting arrows across the room and all the while our professor gathers his thoughts to repeat the information on the slides. The 'very very important' elements present. Handwritten notes. Is that the best way? Review powerpoint after lecture and see what happens. It's not this. Stupid thoughts. No beauty in a self-satisfying goal to be a good student. It's about being social. I lost myself in my studies already. Here this may be indicated, this freewrite. I was beginning about a sweet looking girl, who smiles in my direction from time to time, but then I went off a bit about grade griping and the most effective study habits. Whatever who cares. I need the freedom. My heart leans towards women but my mind focuses on the content. How animals became other animals. In a hypothetical scenario, we all would have to choose a mate in the room for breeding, and everyone looked around. The smell of lust in the air like a high school dance. Breathe in. Black hair, black thin rim glasses, a tattoo on her neck, something illegible, she elbowed me one day on accident and I froze, stricken, ya'll good I said. Damn it. Soc? Too early to flirt. Simple as that. Shakespearian women in English classes, trolls of one kind or another. Beauty in the movement of their wrists on paper. Beauty hidden inside. Surgically combine the talent and the superficial attractiveness I seek. The body and the mind combined and I have a dream girl. I saw the ghost of some girl I once held the door for. She is skinny, with glasses, red tipped hair, beautiful musician I think, I want her to be... I fucked up any chance of that. How to talk to someone like this? I knew her briefly in a class last year. I don't know her name though I know it starts with a K. Or a C. She might not recognize me. I want to network. To talk with her and realize what she dreams about. What she aspires to become. I miss deep talk of any kind. I talk superficial like it is an impulse. I love all of them. I want to marry all of them. I wish I could bypass first impressions and go straight to a closer understanding. I am the worst first impressionist. And I hate myself for it. And this cloud is carried along with me in such a demeanor. Give me a god damn chance!!
Realizing now that I dreamed about her, or a girl who looked like her. In this dream I was some old friend. We had a deep connection, as we had known each other for so long. Sometime in this deep past I chose another girl over her for some reason or another. Hurt her. But now, years and years later. She comes crying to me because her boyfriend or someone of a similar role died. Hit by a truck or something. I comforted her quietly, never having liked the boy. Having nothing to say. Crushing bones and sobbing on my shoulder. It's okay it's okay. Everything is going to be alright.
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Save up the change for a tummy tuck.
You are not beautiful.
Make sure the coins are heads.
There is a 50/50 chance your goal will take twice as long as it should.
Now dye your hair like a rainbow
and flaunt it
Clean your dirty fingernails
with a bloody knife
(you were born with the sun and you will die with the moon)
coffee stains in my stomach
the acidic liquid burning through the lining
in my stomach
but this makes me warm and awake
I feel superhuman
after 15 cups
and i know its working when I can feel my teeth yellowing
like the pages of an old newspaper
given time
funny how no one brought in an actual newspaper clipping
everything was an article printed from some website
favoritism, she based decisions on flashy headlines
not content
but my story had all of the elements
a political struggle
muslim extremists
one of the world's most popular honeymoon spots
and it is sinking slowly, into the indian ocean
rather. the indian ocean is rising
11 on thursday.... i have 84 hours or so.. to write a 15 page story
I have the outline
The conflict and the ideas
but its in fragments
the dialogue is not convincing
these characters are yelling at me
Make me seem more realistic! Please god (for I am their god) don't make me boring!
Also a computer project. Elementary, my dear watson.
A discussion board post.
A sociology exam.
40 pages of a Therese Raquin to read. (choose prompt for future essay... )
A sociology of deviance project. I must choose my deviant act.
all in all
i have a lot to do
and i want drugs to assist my studies
i want drugs to write the papers for me
using my brain and my hands
in unison like i can't seem to do alone
the drug is a ghost who guides my body to extremes
these extremes create good art
these extremes are essential to being human
all in all
i need to focus
i need to stay calm and work above the influence
of anything but a four pack of redbull
all in all
i need wings
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It felt like someone twisted off a pressure valve inside my skull and that delicate physiology was bursting at the seams. But I released all pressure with a simple ingredient. My characters were strangled me as I strangled them. But because I turned off my filter, I can seem they clearly and they are alive like my peers now, my invisible peers. I stepped outside my apartment and instantly fell to hating every sound around me like it was a knife into my forehead. The triviality of these things people say. The BBQ and the sluts. And all of their skin. Their revealed skin, simply lounging in the sun and becoming stupid. It feels good sure, that vitamin D. But who the hell invited the 'tan is pretty' norm? Why do we do this? They don't read, just talk sometimes about things that sound awful to me. Something I'll never understand. They discuss such garbage. I will never understand. But then again I'll be lonely and deprived if I avoid this talk all of the time. What if I wish to write a story with one of these awful creatures in it as a character? I would need to know at least one. And study it. I hated the air I breathed until it wasn't oxygen. Then I loved it and fixed mistakes. That self-limiting herb also expands opinion. They don't want us thinking revolutionary ideas so they make it illegal. They tie it to poor underclass and it is banned. Self-serving. Tea time. I'm tired of writing this freely. I will go back to monotonous structure issues of my damned story. But I killed my filter. My critic is chuckling and watching cartoons somewhere deeper in my subconscious. While he is away and distracted I can get my story done.
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technically friday.... 12:10 am
Self sabotage
pretty girls make graves
I'm digging a coffin sized hole to bury the shovel
I gave away a phone charger
and looked away when we made eye contact
I was so dumb and confused
Yeah, come on in for a second.
Nice digs.
Nice eyelashes.
I practically live next door, my best friend ever does.
I opened the door like a troll, seeing sunlight for the first time in so many months.
Or a hermit deep in the woods. It has been many months since I've seen another breathing human.
Elliot Smith and Therese Raquin. An anxious novel.
Parallels many of many current anxieties and past desires.
Not to the point of murder. Just emotional similarity.
(I've have half a mind to drag the sunset down)
Listen to crimson and clover because of elliot smith.
I froze with this girl. I was an automaton.
(don't dare disturb me, don't complicate my peace of mind)
Why do I shoot myself?
In the kneecaps. Nothing ever deadly or serious.
Just enough to get me physically weak and in no shape to tackle the idea of talking coherently to women.
Today was the first day in a long time, beautiful women everywhere. I'm crazy. I'm an ass.
Etc.
I felt like I was walking up the stairs to a tomb earlier. The sun's out. It's beautiful.
The sun is always out.
Help me.
That's my refrain. I feel like I can't do this on my own. I can't change without a helping hand. Someone reach out or something.
I need an influence.
Some force to push me forward. As I am miserable in my monotony.
This weekend. No pleasure seeking. All work and no play makes jack a smart boy.
Last weekend I was a dull boy. No one will see the Swellers with me. Or Dance Gavin Dance.
OR Radiohead for that matter. I won't bring someone who will complain.
I couldn't do it.
I'm surrounded by weak people. In essence I am becoming weak. Socially. I die slow in my bedroom. And no one gives a flying fuck about what I am doing in here.
