So I am making an appointment to have "that which does not make us stronger only kills us." tattooed in courier new as a garter on my right thigh. I should be able to read it at a glance so I should put it in a band that goes all the way around. I'm sure I can design something. I love the one I have more and more each day. I'll even explain your ears off over this one. Inertia, motherfuckers. You cannot plateau when life is so short. I am young as fuck but I am becoming "of age" in the sense that I am aware of life speeding up: of days becoming increasingly insignificant, relative to how many drops have already fallen in the bucket. Stillness is death. Why does this all sound like sarcasm? Or like I've been reading nothing but Ayn Rand? Hmm, I wonder. Back off, I'm sorry I didn't get this out of my system earlier but everybody knew it was coming at some point and I'm eagerly requesting anti-Capitalist propaganda and yes, I will finish Atlas Shrugged, but six hundred pages and slightly over half-way through it, I can definitely say that um, I get it uh-huh yes I get it already. But I will have it under my belt on the first try (no fucking way am I starting over some day, there other literary fish to fry). I trust my own discretion but I'd like to hear the other side of it: ideally not pro-socialist, though, because I've been there already and I hate hippies.
I am supremely uncomfortable writing this because I've written three entries before this one and I can picture them, at home, strewn about the invisible person's side of the bed (somewhere in the last two years, I lost the ability to sleep in the middle of the bed and now I want it back). I got to work at six-oh-five after sitting bolt upright, all eyes on the clock, in bed and croaking "FUCK" at five-fifty-five. I got home, emptied the dogchild, and traded my Delta for my grandmother's ex-bicycle. It is still a bicycle.
Marching onward with the deep insights*: I blew a lot of the money that the government gradually saved up for me last year. I have spurs. "English" ones. I think, as someone completely unqualified to own or wear spurs, what this means is that they don't actually HURT anything but there's always metal files, eh? Regardless, my yankee rump was a bit disappointed to realize that it's impossible to strap them on to my converse or anything without a distinct heel. It has been suggested that I carve notches into the rubber soles. (I wonder if I could make them into pointy toes somehow.) It's worth a try, considering it would be a wet dream of ULTIMATE FOOTWEAR. And it jingles. I am no spy. I want people to know when I'm on the move.
Alternate subject: My babyteeth really hurt and I'm eating little bits of them from the roots every time I chew. I thought my wisdom teeth would force them out, but luckily, they seem to be shy and both are waning, not waxing, at the moment. Aye mate, at the bloody moment. Yeah, and fuck socialism and public healthcare. Sure, sure.
The race is on. Tune in next time for "Whether or not Mandrea McCannibal's state taxes were late since she's such a kosher, jewy hebe about not just paying thirty dollars to have them over with and only federal filing was free."
Pshaw, I'll procrastinate later. (Note to self: The last two words of that sentence are NOT an incredible thing to have tattooed across your clavicle. Somehow I think my long career as a black-eyeliner-wearing TOOL-listening tritely angsting adolescent has diminished the respect and awe that I probably ought to have for my body as a canvas and nonrenewable natural resource.)
"It's a long, long, rope they'll use to hang me soon I hope and I wonder why this hasn't happened, why why why? And I think about the dirt that I'll be wearing for a coat and I hope that I get old before I die."
And yet, every cigarette smoked is making the admission that I don't really want to die but I apparently don't really want to live, either.
* Note to Southerners: this is what we call "sarcasm."
I am supremely uncomfortable writing this because I've written three entries before this one and I can picture them, at home, strewn about the invisible person's side of the bed (somewhere in the last two years, I lost the ability to sleep in the middle of the bed and now I want it back). I got to work at six-oh-five after sitting bolt upright, all eyes on the clock, in bed and croaking "FUCK" at five-fifty-five. I got home, emptied the dogchild, and traded my Delta for my grandmother's ex-bicycle. It is still a bicycle.
Marching onward with the deep insights*: I blew a lot of the money that the government gradually saved up for me last year. I have spurs. "English" ones. I think, as someone completely unqualified to own or wear spurs, what this means is that they don't actually HURT anything but there's always metal files, eh? Regardless, my yankee rump was a bit disappointed to realize that it's impossible to strap them on to my converse or anything without a distinct heel. It has been suggested that I carve notches into the rubber soles. (I wonder if I could make them into pointy toes somehow.) It's worth a try, considering it would be a wet dream of ULTIMATE FOOTWEAR. And it jingles. I am no spy. I want people to know when I'm on the move.
Alternate subject: My babyteeth really hurt and I'm eating little bits of them from the roots every time I chew. I thought my wisdom teeth would force them out, but luckily, they seem to be shy and both are waning, not waxing, at the moment. Aye mate, at the bloody moment. Yeah, and fuck socialism and public healthcare. Sure, sure.
The race is on. Tune in next time for "Whether or not Mandrea McCannibal's state taxes were late since she's such a kosher, jewy hebe about not just paying thirty dollars to have them over with and only federal filing was free."
Pshaw, I'll procrastinate later. (Note to self: The last two words of that sentence are NOT an incredible thing to have tattooed across your clavicle. Somehow I think my long career as a black-eyeliner-wearing TOOL-listening tritely angsting adolescent has diminished the respect and awe that I probably ought to have for my body as a canvas and nonrenewable natural resource.)
"It's a long, long, rope they'll use to hang me soon I hope and I wonder why this hasn't happened, why why why? And I think about the dirt that I'll be wearing for a coat and I hope that I get old before I die."
And yet, every cigarette smoked is making the admission that I don't really want to die but I apparently don't really want to live, either.
* Note to Southerners: this is what we call "sarcasm."
VIEW 25 of 34 COMMENTS
and that chair you're sitting on..i used to have one JUST like it
so retro..kinda wish i still had it..haha.but it was so old
Why do ya have ta write stuff thets so complicated?! Yer young, purdy, and healthy. You should join the army and see Iran.. errr.. I mean.. the world. Yeah, thet sounds better. Also, I noticed in yer profile you said you hope rockstars'll jerk off to ya. Well, what about Prezeedents? YEEE HAW!!!
FREEDOMS ON THE MARCH