| I'd rather just kill them than tell them how they're wrong. |
[05|13|09 @ 06 PM] |
| [ |
mood |
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cynical |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
From the Morning, Nick Drake |
] |
It just seems like lately
I'm so above everyone I don't
even
have
the presence of mind
to be
a condescending bitch,
not even to some teenage girl who
thinks she wants to have a baby,
or some obnoxious college aged slut begging for attention...
I'd rather just kill them than tell them how they're wrong.
It'd just be easier to kill them.
And probably a lot more fun.
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| snips |
[04|11|09 @ 12 AM] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
simple |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Nick Drake |
] |
There's a dirty river of vodka dripping
onto a record player
being scratched
by some lady's over grown
toenails
dangling like a meat hook
dense into the surface
of something bony and flat
like your forehead or your future.
Ask your palm what's wrong.
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| single bed. |
[04|11|09 @ 12 AM] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
okay with uncomfortable. |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Fake Empire, The National |
] |
I bought a single bed today because
I'm so fucking tired of looking
at the perfectly untouched
other side of my old one.
I'm tired of emptiness
greeting me in the morning.
I'm just tired. All the time, now.
So, I bought a single bed. Not to fuck. Not to lay in with someone else.
Just to sleep in.
All the time.
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| Dig your nails into something. |
[01|18|09 @ 02 AM] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
fetid |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Tom Waits |
] |
Words To a Hip Young Man In an Undershirt... With Buttons.
Get posi!
Play Down the River in a dirty bedroom with cheap, strong vodka.
And cheap, sweet juice.
Lick your chops, put out matches with your little wet tongue.
Smile at people who you don't know in the sharpest of ways.
Do comb your hair.
Shoegaze, like a tag on a song.
Be tough like an orange peel, be bold and tart under your skin like the quietest of all hot high school math teachers.
First you're ruthless and you write with that tricky, sneering chalk, then you're cheeky, staring at the dip between some young girls tits like it's nothing.
Fly a fucking kite.
Yeah, throw your television remote into the lake next to your sister's boyfriend's apartment.
Make poetry sound more personal by adding a string of relations.
See that? Like I just did.
And did you question me?
Naw. So try it because I know you think you should write something for some reason.
Be a shocker, but not like that, pervert.
Don't watch any movies made after 1994.
Eat processed food while you're young and thin and pretty.
Get inspiration for the music you think you can make in the weirdest of places.
If you see a chinchilla anywhere, pet it.
Buy college text books and highlight analogies.
Wear very thin socks.
Smell the air in bars with a blindfold on.
Kiss your palms.
Take a shower in the dark.
Dig your nails into something.
Use the word "flaccid" to describe anything that isn't your dick.
Don't rely on anyone but yourself.
Don't talk to God.
Don't make promises you cannot keep.
Spend a whole day in a book store and don't use one contraction in your speech.
Stop shopping at Whole Foods.
Stop drinking PBR, please.
Go shine a light,
Make all things into terrible little pieces of advice,
Just like this one.
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| Do you ever want to run from things when they begin to get complicated? |
[01|18|09 @ 01 AM] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
feeling like a fair lady |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Department of Eagles |
] |
From the blog:
"Meeting people is easy.
Sleeping with your attractive friends is easier...
But it's only easier until you realize what you might just be pining for is falling away from you quickly. Like a comet running from something fast.
Here I am in the early childhood of 2009, mildly heartbroken and lying on my back in a new Department of Eagles tee shirt. My hair's long and this vodka isn't doing anything it hasn't done before, but hey, such is life. Living feels the same every morning. It's what you're living that changes. That's why God made vodka.
I suppose I'll give you an update then, why not. Fuck, is it ever cold. Maybe after I spill my guts I'll be able to feel my toes again. Less blood to circulate. You're thinking...
"Speak English, girl. Don't smoke any more weed until you can find your own."
I spent some time in Columbus with some good friends last night. Watching Dan eat a burrito is better than watching violent hockey. That is the good strong concrete and here is the fall straight, face down onto it: I've made the mistake of lying to myself about things like casual sex and distance.
Like Little Julian in his sunglasses, I'm invisible. And when I am I can be as rude as I want to. But when I'm not I'm lending you my mother's gloves and trying to act like you haven't taken any sort of lead.
This isn't a race,
this is me
groping
for my own
happiness...
and its
inside
your throat.
It's me forgetting all of what I said I'd never do. And driving away from the place I used to watch everyone drive away from with my fingernails digging hard into the steering wheel, biting my lip and thinking about how wrong I was.
God.
I should live in NYC in a well decorated studio apartment and write some fucking pathetic drama about how hip my fucking life is and play a lot of Isis and shave my head.
Or not.
I'm far to vain for that sort of thing.
No,
I need to learn
to tell the
truth about
lying to myself.
I'm moving back to school tomorrow.
I've been wild over music lately, with all the time allotted for it.
I've gotten to know my own distinct appeal, discovered that others can sense that before I can.
I've laughed and cried within the same 14 minute period.
Do you ever want to run from things when they begin to get complicated?
Don't.
Everything gets
complicated."
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