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| i should be studying and reviewing for a midterm tomorrow. i have every right to. i have every reason to. but, no. something's on my mind. can't quite put my finger on it... as is usually the case. why do i get the most attention when i ham up some stupid controversial/angry rant? does it really matter that much to you? really. if only i were super focused. i could be prolific as an entertainer who has absolutely nothing else to show for his life. people will eat it right up as i man-handle the success to buy hardcore drugs. drugs fit for a king. i'd wear my status like a crown. everyone's got something to prove. it's a fucking life goal in most cases. you could be a little more subtle about it and leave me the hell alone. don't bother me if you've got nothing (you're willing) to offer. preservation is useless when you end up changing like the fickle little spot of shit that you are. i hope i never live forever. | | |
| why do people try so hard to be hip? hey, maybe you don't have to try. did you ever think of that? you wind up spending an excess on stupid shit that makes you seem cool. cool. an identity as defined by external, soul-less sources. well, yeah, maybe you're better off buying accessories for a living. is james blunt really the heir to elliot smith? fuck no. you call those pussy, oversimplified chord progressions, forcedfalsetto-laden, producer-graced machinations heartfelt? god. i really hate to say it, but some girls are really fucking stupid. JAMES BLUNT DOES NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOU. NOR DOES HE THINK "YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL." JAMES BLUNT WANTS YOUR MONEY. just look at his adorable, strategically messy hair. oh yeah. the sex soundtrack to underagers world-wide is totally an intimate record. he sure doesn't seem war torn. you would think it'd be an excuse for him to write GOOD songs. definitely isn't one of the respectable ones that've survived, that's for sure. fuck james blunt. the silly motherfucker. he will never know how it feels to be... overlooked. before you run your mouth off, realize that you are in no position to argue with an elitist snob. oh, and if you like both (JB and ES), you're lying. get out of my house. the bastard's going to hell when he dies. hopefully one day he'll realize that sticking a shrapnel grenade up his ass would do the world a favor. same goes for you, Bono. you fucking prick. go drink your expensive wine while listening to your overrated records. | | |
| i guess i kind of owe you guys an update. so, here goes: my life consistently stumbles upon all of the possible obstacles it encounters. you see, i have to take a step back and try to see it as a whole. it's a little consoling when i successfully distract myself from the fact that i have to actually experience it. kinda like reading a book. although, less predictable. even the most impenetrable and difficult books or stories have an end. they all have a point, no matter how abstract (or utterly confused) that point is. failure and success have the final say. it is too bad that books and stories are only documents. there's no supreme measure of enlightenment that you can read. text. there's no God in that. everything we read, learn or understand is drawn from people much alike ourselves: people who don't know shit. sure, there's much to gain from the simple, artistic means of communication. but, we're only communicating with each other. and, again, we don't know what it feels like to die. is it spiritual? why does that fucking word even exist? ...we do not gain anything that transcends our experience as human beings. shitting, eating, sleeping. (don't think for a second that you're any different from the mentally retarded ones)
our writings are only tributes to ourselves. even the fictional ones are, at the core, autobiographical. you get it or you don't. if you do, kudos to you. if you don't, congratulations, you've wasted your time. | | |
| i am in one of those goddamned rotten moods where i want to drop everything. my commitment and loyalty to shady, ungrateful, blameless friends. this air conditioned house. my family. i want to leave this shit alltogether with the same pair of jeans on. i want to wander off into the cold and die from starvation. at least then, i don't have to continually strain my fucking eyes to see past the not-so-thinly veiled muck and pretention that plagues everyone and everything on this fucking civilized earth. i don't have to pretend like i have the slightest fucking clue of where my life is going or who i'm going to shack up with to make all of my hard earned years as an average student pay off. i don't have to care about making people like me. i don't have to care about shitting where i eat. please don't worry for my soul. admit it, that's none of your fucking concern. if i had the balls to follow through, would you have the decency to let me die with a little dignity? | | |
| feeling a little bummed, drinking newcastle brown ale this Christmas Eve/Morning. i like the novelty of it. i appreciate the taste. i know it doesn't comfort me or calm my nerves. i can barely handle three. i am hardly an alcoholic. god, why do these holidays get so progressively empty by the years? i understand that i'm in the minority for feeling this way, and that makes it worse. holidays have no effect when they lose their meaning. holidays are only holidays as opposed to individual historical events of significance. holidays aren't for everyone. holidays are excuses. i am one of the few, but also one just as everybody else. my perspective isn't skewed... just different. there is no correction other than an adaptation of another mindset. i think the goal is to be happy. buying the excuse to catch up with family (and/or good company), buying presents, buying time off work and school, buying happiness. i guess i'm just losing touch. i liked myself much better when i was younger -- when i was oblivious to the fact that no one else did.
maybe not... but i sure do miss it. it gets so fucking lonely out here, living in this world. | | |
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