And I guess...that I just don't know

At work. Heroin. Velvet Underground. It's been on repeat all day eeeeeer day. Look it up if you don't already love the song.

"And I guess...that I just don't know."

On the Eve of the glorious Geneva, & I'm stuck.

Things I'm thinking about:
1. I'm not going to live past 30. (Edie sucks for putting that in my head).
2. I want to go talk to a shrink, but I can't tell them everything. I just. CAN'T. And I'm not going to be real with them and I doubt that one rainy day I'm going to have this Lifetime syruped emotional breakthrough and realize that THE REASON why I'm so messed up is because my random family friend molested me when I was little and I repressed the memory my entire life until now. Okay that's not funny to joke about. But I hope you got the reference.
3. This blog is my desperate, pathetic attempt to find that reason.
4. I love studying people.
5. I've been doing all this research on anti-depressants. Honestly, I would like to try them out. I need to feel things again. Really feel things. Instead of the big three: drunk, high, hungover. (Sometimes a combination. Les bi honest, MOST of the time. It's like a 'you pick two' from Panera. But the bowl you get is not made of bread. It's either a toilet bowl or a leafy one.)
6. It's been almost 2 weeks at my internship and the other intern has never gone to the bathroom. Or sneezed. Possible robot? Totally.
7. When I get obsessed with something, I literally get an UNHEALTHY obsession with it. Oxymoron? Nah. J. Lo in "Enough" (brilliant film) doesn't hold a flame to how many black eyes and sucker punches society's been swinging at the English language. & helloooo "Heroin" played 137 times yesterday on my phone and 87 so far today. (Really depends on my state. Not Nebraska. Please refer back to #5's 'the big three.') Currently, I'm obsessed with: Lars von Trier's "Melancholia" (even though-ESPECIALLY BECAUSE it's not out yet), perenially drunk artist's personal lives, Bon Iver/Bon Iver, talking about Bonnaroo, & annotating "The Love of the Last Tycoon."
8. I need to run a half-marathon by September. How? No idea.
9. I'm so sick of America. I PHYSICALLY NEED TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY AND EXPERIENCE DIFFERENT PEOPLE AND PLACES AND THINGS. I am obnoxiously jealous of my amazing sister who gets to go to Argentina this summer and Spain in the fall. She deserves it. And two of my best franz have gotten to play the European black keys several times now. And everyone always gives me shit about it. "Wait- I thought you were going to Ireland?" or "The fuck is wrong with you? Why didn't you go?" BECAUSE WE CAN'T AFFORD IT YOU FUCK. But when I go, I'm doing it right. I'm not going through school or taking a class (unless I want to), I'm doing the 'backpacking between bars and benches' thing.
10. My sister's the only one who will ever really get it.
11. I always get my hopes up.
12. Find me something that stirs my soul-strings.

Oh yeah, I'm planning an escape.

We Cannot Afford To Be What We Have Become

"There's your karma, ripe as peaches."

"You never die enough to cry."

"But why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?"

"We should be wondering tonight, 'Is there a world?' But I could go and talk on 5, 10, 20 minutes about is there a world, because there is really no world, cause sometimes I'm walkin’ on the ground and I see right through the ground. And there is no world. And you'll find out."

"My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a wretch. But I love, love."

"This is the story of America. Everybody's doing what they think they're supposed to do."

"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty."

Pocket Jokers

My parents raised me "young." I don't think they really had childhoods, and because of that, they have been refusing to unhinge their fixation on it. I'm actually surprised I didn't end up more weird than I already am. My siblings and I were raised in a bubble of books and imagination with tinted windows so that we couldn't see the sun. My parents were and are very strict. My parents still don't want me to grow up. I love my family; I couldn't have asked for a better childhood. But now I find that the very holy childhood soaked in a golden aura of nostalgia wrapped in a bow on a shelf in the living room of my upper story- is something I'm starting to resent. My parents hardly know me anymore. They have no idea what I'm actually doing- both good and very, very, VERY bad things. If I died tomorrow, and they found this blog and all of my writing in my room and heard stories about me and found out some of the things I've done, I have no idea what they would do. I can't help but wonder that if the chances of them reading this are very high, then why am I doing this?

Puffin' Pounds

What to say, what to say.

I feel like I have too much love to give.  I'm not a misogamist, but, fuck, if you can't believe in a perennial partnership, in someone reminding your old and twisted brain that the keys are indeed in your hand, then what? What can you believe in?

I am happy, I like my life, I do good. But a lot of the time, I find myself tripping on double takes. No, they're not some new drug- although acid could accurately be nicked that- I'm second guessing the stupid little life I live. My upper story contoured a mental waiting room. And I feel like my head is always present there.

Why do things at all if I'm going to half-ass 'em? (Mawawana is not an excuse). Seriously. I'm the Captain of the Speech Team, but I have yet to win a tournament this year, and why didn't I break more than one event at Nationals? I make movies, but I'm kidding myself if I think they can transcend into anything substantial. Why make this blog if I slack on the posting? Why work out when I just Miss Piggy out? Why bother "talking" or "hanging out" with anyone when I know it's not going to lead to anything concrete and I'm really just leading them on? Why have I built up relationships to have a Titantic-sized influence on my life? Why am I obsessed with Titanic? What the hell am I doing?

Whoever the hell is reading this, stop. I know you're thinking that I'm just throwing myself a pity party in my fucking waiting room of disdain and loathing, OR you might be thinking that I'm absolutely correct (in which case, les bi fraannnz), but I don't really care. I'm sick of caring so much what others think. If you just read this whole thing, meet me at da waiting room, there's pita.

Is Nothing Sacred?

I’m back. But I’m not all the way back; I’m somewhere between back like Mel Gibson back and back like Kanye West back. So I’m almost there. But I’m still not there. At all.

Recently, I’ve come to realize that nothing is sacred. I literally don’t think I can tell anyone ANYTHING without it traveling through the byzantine conduits of all of my friends’ brains. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these are my people. And I’m guilty of the same thing. But it’s more than just gossip when I step back (a good back) and really take a gander.

 How do you get to know people? You open up to them. You act, you speak, and they construct an opinion of you in their heads. And so is born an idea, a conception of you that lives and exists in their upper story. But when it gets interesting, I think, is when you link your swings together so that you’re married: you're idea of who this person is mingles orison with palpable presence and the acquisition, is that you know them. Really well. So well, that you've xeroxed copies of each segment of them, dissected them, chewed them up and out until that conception is a beaten, unholy corpse of an idea. And that corpse buried deep in your upper story matches how you literally see them. 

I’ve also realized that I’m a magnet for guys I’m not interested in. And this magnet, is pretty fucking strong. GIIIIIIIIT SUMMMMMMMMMM. 

Unknown Track 5

What's in a name? I haven't been sleeping very well lately (Inception-induced or not), and I've been thinking a lot about things I haven't thought about in awhile. Those things happen to come from the highlights of my heartdrive. Although I have loved many people in my life, there are certain souls who will always stay with me. And that is because of one thing: the way they said my name. 

Who the person was, is, or is not, is not significant. When said individual calls your name, references you in a story, or introduces you to someone, you know exactly how they feel about you. But beyond that, I've had people who I thought liked me alright, but said my name with the utmost pride, and it changed everything. You wonder what you did to appear so grand in their eyes, but that doesn't even matter. What matters, (in the big picture) is the unforgettable feeling you got because of it: that you are someone important, dear, worthwhile.

One of my dear friends is going through an overdose of bullshit from her supposed best friends from college. Classic case of Mean Girls, but it's just gone too far (& we all know how Lindsay Lohan fucking turned out). If you allow people to spit on your name, and belittle you in diatribes, then who the fuck are you? And when do you draw the line? It's much easier said then done; easier to spot from the outside than inside. But how much shit are you supposed to take 'til they're satisfied? 

Until you're a broken, hollow shell of a person?