|Current mood:|| contemplative|
|Current music:||Jack Johnson - Fortunate Fool|
It's been a while.
I got pockets full of dimes and chapstick and lonely nights when I feel pale and thin and weak and want to be held. I got bare feet and cold hands and no grammar, even though I always correct other people's. At least I can admit it. I got pigtails and rainbow underwear but I'm not that innocent, you know. I got tired green eyes and a long neck. In the mirror all I see is disdain. I don't got a favorite song and I'm not civilized and I don't got any table manners. I'm the sun and the air of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I'm the son and the heir of nothing in particular. I got a smile like that fuckin' French painting and a laugh like treacle, a mouth like a sailor when I feel strong about something. I got nervous legs that keep the beat like a guitar player, move like a spider sometimes. A throat, a voice box that decieves me sometimes and doesn't say things like I want 'em, loves to sing though. Got a 'lectric guitar, I'd stay up till three in the morning playing flamboyant notes and singing my bullshit song, anything to make you feel better. Got electric light, got second sight. Got amazing powers of observation, that's how I know what you'll say when I kiss you. Got posters on the walls, all wrinkled up though, like I just didn't care anymore, but that wasn't it. Just got frustrated, you know? Got a lot of frustration in that slender frame, but wouldn't show it to anyone. Except that one day- the car heard my confessions, went to the beach and walked it out of me and cried when I saw a dead bird. I got dead birds lined up in my past, all so fragile like glass ones in that store in Vermont with the real life fossils and the fan art from Lord of the Rings. I got the whole trilogy. I got a whole shelf of books I love. Don't got much talent as a writer though, wish I could write like Steinbeck Salinger Shakespeare- Mike or Dana or Sarah. I got a boy I love, but I got scars on my legs anyway. I got a book of matches. I gotta, just gotta check my CDs check my tapes every night just in case, just in case they got messed up or lost, just in case. Just in case. Got so much fear. Got so much love. Got so much fe
God, tell me to shut up already with these rants about nothing at all. Just chop my hands off if I type too long, you know? Thanks. I am not going to be like those journalling bloggers, that tell about their day and I'm not going to update you on all that's happened, because honestly, I don't care what you think! Whee! For instance, my friend Sasha, who is a very nice person and sits behind me in world studies class, writes about her day without using any grammer, puctuation (okay, she uses some. I'll give her that), or capitalization and it's very hard to read. I ramble though. I guess that's hard to read, too.
I cleaned my room today. (God, what a hypocrite I am. At least I can admit it though.) It was relaxing. I took my time. I was listening to Dashboard Confessional and then Cat Stevens and then Ani Difranco. Acoustic is nice. I never did get those acoustic lessons from Mike, but I'm sure he'd give them to me if I asked. I am very shy, however, and don't want to seem like the "Morello freshmen" that Ashley is always complaining about. By "Morello freshmen" she means the freshman girls that think Mike is hot and basically follow him around and share their crap writing with him and expect him to not criticize its plainness. Like a girl Jen in my class, that is not very smart but would like to seem so because she has a large crush on Mike. I am not one of these people. That is fortunate.
David Byrne owns me. He is my one and only god.