Moving Day

Kids, pack your things.

This is not a pipe.

Some people make their world whatever the hell sounds good to them. We're not in a fucking movie. Life isn't as dramatic as you make it--it's rather mundane, if I say so myself.

So true

"I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me."

-Edna Pontellier, The Awakening

Summer

I guess I've stopped writing.

I don't know what it is, but my mind and words don't mix as well as they used to. I can no longer communicate anything, really. I feel like nothing in my life is tangible; there is nothing to back things up, nothing really exists. I live like an animal, off of feelings. I'm happy, I'm angry, I'm sad--for no reason at all. My feelings and my environment don't seem like they connect. I've become so detached from reality since I graduated from high school. I don't do anything anymore. I spend six hours wasting away, watching other people live their lives. Theresa got new bubbiez. Celina chose Jason over her parents' choice meat, because she and Jason were meant to be. And while they go on with their lives, I sit there. Waiting for something new to happen, waiting for something to write about.

Goodbye

As soon as I tear that envelope open, it's over.

So beautiful, I almost cried

9:47 p.m.

As I observe all of the greed, deception, and squalor of the world,


I smile.

5:07 p.m.

...And at the Pearly Gates, I knelt on both knees and begged. I was the Pauper demanding cake. You stared at me and laughed, and before I knew it, I fell from the clouds.

Farther,
and farther,
back to Earth.

I am Mortal; nothing is going to change any time soon. All I can do is look to the clouds and pray that, one day, You will let me in. But that's ridiculous. I have better things to do.

March

These days I find myself either completely stressed out or completely sedated.

11:40 a.m.

It smells like burned plastic.  Like my mother's room on a Saturday morning, the curling iron resting on the sink.  Everyone around me covers their faces with their arms, their scarves.  "The smell...it's too much."  I am the only one who enjoys it.  I inhale, exhale.  My lungs finally feel big, like white garbage bags that have never been used.  For the first time in a long while, I can take in the world without the stress, the drama, the neverending battle I have with confronting my fears.  I am calm.  

I stand enveloped by fire, but I know I will make it out.  For I will use my lungs and breathe as hard as I can, like the Big Bad Wolf and a brick house, like a child and a birthday cake.  

There's no such thing as a dead end.

9:15 p.m.

I pull into the parking lot in a black Toyota pickup, driving 45 mph. The guitar intro of "More Human Than Human" blares on the radio. I jump out of the car, squeeze through the gates. It's pitch black, and the only thing I hear is Rob Zombie's voice shouting in my head.

"I am the Astro-Creep
a demolition style hell
American Freak "

Close one.

The Obligatory New Year's Post

I'm not going to change...
things are going to suck.
things will not be "bomb" or "hot" in '09.
things are going to stay the same.



They always stay the same.