format

this playlist of posts is now set to shuffle.
i save the entries to my hard drive as i write them, and i post them when i feel it appropriate -- not necessarily in the order they were written.

the result, dear reader, is intended to entertain and confuse you.

get fucked.

i mean, thank you.

1.28.2006

nothing is hatching

I was doing a lot of thinking down I-43 on the way to Oostburg this morning, and I think i might be able to explain the cloud looming over me.

Growing up, at a very young age people started telling me I was special. And I, being very young and unwise, believed them. When they said "special", they meant apt. When they told me I'd be successful, they meant I could go to a good school and get a job at a good company. When they told me I could do anything I put my mind to, they meant I had a few more choices than most people if I was willing to work hard enough for it.

Most of this pandering came during elementary school, after which my parents started moving around. This was to be a long and difficult time for me, during which I held on to the belief that I would be successful and happy one day as if it were a life preserver; in many respects, it was.

Half a lifetime ago, I'd look at that image in the mirror and I had no idea how I was going to become the person I believed I would become, but I believed someday things would all be different. I've found that at age 24 I'm still waiting. I look in the mirror and I still see that kid anxious for the future to deliver me into happiness.

Its kind of like finding an abandonded nest with an unhatched egg and deciding to incubate the egg. Imagining with excitment what will hatch and what will become of it, its easy to justify the work involved caring for the egg. Soon days become weeks, then months and nothing ever develops. There finally comes a point where its time to consider that you've been nursing a shell with a corpse inside.

I'm the one dead inside.
I feel like a shell.
I feel unborn.

Going to work to get another paycheck to pay rent and put food in my mouth is not going to make me feel alive any more than a heat lamp is going to reanimate a dead bird fetus.

I don't want to believe that my dreams are hopeless any more than Terry Schiavo's parents wanted to believe their daughter was gone forever (yep, i just went there). But when you're braindead, you're braindead. And I have to consider than my dreams are in a persistent vegetative state.

This is hard for me.

1.09.2006

SWM (Stupid Wimpy Moron) seeking SWF (Sexgoddess With [dork] Fetish)

This is what's got me worked up:


Were it not for the fact that blood is being routed away from my brain right now, I'd blow a blood vessel in my damned forehead right now. Were I simpler man, I could just enjoy the boobies and get on with my life, but I'm way too caught up in the fact there's a guy out there with a ridongculously hot girlfriend who will dress up in a sexy retarded penguin outfit for his little video game website. I'm so drunk with jealousy right now that I could just spill the blood of the innocent, or slam my genitals in the bathroom door. Motherfucker. Aarrrghh.

I don't have to guess this is the scenario, because I know its true. I've met them both so many times. This is how it goes down:

We meet at a party or a bar, whatever, and I notice her come in, and my brain is like "HA HA HA!! YOU? and HER?? ...BWAHAHAHAAHA!!" So I avoid eye-contact for awhile, because the visual and the dialogue together make it seems like she's the one laughing. I stroke off my ego with thoughts of how she's probably a real bimbo and likes guys with big muscles, fast cars, and no brains, and then I forget about her. Ah, but fate, cruel bitch that she is, is not done with us. We are introduced somehow and begin talking, and that's how I learn the damning truth that she's actually incredibly smart. I find myself engaged in discourse the likes of which I've never thought possible. She has personality, intelligence, wit, ideals, a sense of humor, bottomless eyes, and the most amazing lips. Oh my god. I could --

Wait. Who's this guy. Is your that little brother? ...oh, I hope that's not your brother. You're not supposed to kiss your brother like that. "This is Chris", or Chad, or lets give him my name for that extra special ironic flavor.

"He's.."
Ready
"..my.."
Aim
"..boy-"
Fire
"-friend.."

If this guy looked like Brad Pitt, I could sleep at night, because I understand that. I've been exposed to that all my life. But I could kick this guy's ass, and I'm a waif. And I sure as hell didn't fall out of the Calvin Klein underwear ad in Vanity Fair, but I'm better looking too. And he just made a math joke.

Scuse me, dream girl? Where's the bathroom? I need to slit my wrists.
Thanks.

Every time I think I've lowered my sights enough to find happiness in reality, I come across this happy couple, and then I want to eat a gun.

When. When is it my turn to date way outside of my means?





Damn you all.