So it hit me recently that my internal monologue refers incessantly to "self." I do not identify with Andrea, Andie, Attica or the host of synonyms for Self. That is my name. I'd answer to that as well as a dog. For the first time, I feel drawn to a mouthnoise label (see also: name). However, despite being an avid grammar nazi, I'm pretty sure I resent "unique spellings" and English's blatant disregard for phonetics enough to NOT be called Celph.
Right, self? Then why does it stick in your head? Because I don't think anyone would agree to refer to me as self and I want to trick them into reinforcing my common belief that I am the center of life, the universe, everything, and its mother.
There's always And., or &, but those get confusing colloquially.
Obviously, everybody cares about my syllabic identity crisis.
I can't wait until I move. I'm in the final week of living in an apartmant I abhor and dread and into somewhere I can get shit done and frantically cram life lessons as if there were going to be a test.
Well, here is the test:
I'm in the final year of Arkansas purgatory, if all goes well. I'm starting to fall lustfully in love with motorcycles after all. I can cheat on my Delta and put him out to pasture. Detroit birthed him in 1976 and thirty years is elderly in car years, whether I love it for the sexy young beast it is at heart or not.
Anyway, next year I'd like to point my headlamp at the Western horizon and let America show me a little flesh. Yeah baby. Flash that desert, flaunt those oceans. Maybe the Attica McCannibal North American Tour of 2007.
Until then, I've got a television show to produce, an Ebay store to manage, and thousands of espresso shots to pull.
Not to mention cooking, sewing, gardening, painting, and poetry. I have decided to stop inflicting my poetry upon the world, though. If I really don't care if my mechanisms work for other people, then it's only sensible to hoard my art all for myself. After all, it's designed to provoke MY brain and daterape MY painful memories.
I think that when I went off the pill, it didn't cure my crazies. It just put the "manic" back into "manic-depressive." A vast improvement, I must say. It spurs me to formulate pick-up lines such as "you like Mike Patton, I like Mike Patton, let's fuck" and the occasional dead baby joke.
No, I won't actually USE that pick-up line upon its intended target. I'll just let it slide and revert to the assumption that no one is attracted to me in person and people look at me and see "weird damaged goods with acne." My defense mechanisms will dole out the first blow and be detached and rude to those I favor most. I refuse to hope that people like me because rejection will hurt more. I will listen to the Violent Femmes and live in black-eyelined denial.
Don't mistake insecurity for low self-esteem. I just think I'm the only person who has any hope for my pith.
Although I bet my british dentistry habits are the brick wall between me and kissing. Nobody wants to be near this shit. I can't even sleep during this slow-motion trainwreck of teeth. Apparently these baby canines should have come out eight years ago. Oh, the pain. Woe is me and my decidedly unwise wisdom teeth.
Right, self? Then why does it stick in your head? Because I don't think anyone would agree to refer to me as self and I want to trick them into reinforcing my common belief that I am the center of life, the universe, everything, and its mother.
There's always And., or &, but those get confusing colloquially.
Obviously, everybody cares about my syllabic identity crisis.
I can't wait until I move. I'm in the final week of living in an apartmant I abhor and dread and into somewhere I can get shit done and frantically cram life lessons as if there were going to be a test.
Well, here is the test:
I'm in the final year of Arkansas purgatory, if all goes well. I'm starting to fall lustfully in love with motorcycles after all. I can cheat on my Delta and put him out to pasture. Detroit birthed him in 1976 and thirty years is elderly in car years, whether I love it for the sexy young beast it is at heart or not.
Anyway, next year I'd like to point my headlamp at the Western horizon and let America show me a little flesh. Yeah baby. Flash that desert, flaunt those oceans. Maybe the Attica McCannibal North American Tour of 2007.
Until then, I've got a television show to produce, an Ebay store to manage, and thousands of espresso shots to pull.
Not to mention cooking, sewing, gardening, painting, and poetry. I have decided to stop inflicting my poetry upon the world, though. If I really don't care if my mechanisms work for other people, then it's only sensible to hoard my art all for myself. After all, it's designed to provoke MY brain and daterape MY painful memories.
I think that when I went off the pill, it didn't cure my crazies. It just put the "manic" back into "manic-depressive." A vast improvement, I must say. It spurs me to formulate pick-up lines such as "you like Mike Patton, I like Mike Patton, let's fuck" and the occasional dead baby joke.
No, I won't actually USE that pick-up line upon its intended target. I'll just let it slide and revert to the assumption that no one is attracted to me in person and people look at me and see "weird damaged goods with acne." My defense mechanisms will dole out the first blow and be detached and rude to those I favor most. I refuse to hope that people like me because rejection will hurt more. I will listen to the Violent Femmes and live in black-eyelined denial.
Don't mistake insecurity for low self-esteem. I just think I'm the only person who has any hope for my pith.
Although I bet my british dentistry habits are the brick wall between me and kissing. Nobody wants to be near this shit. I can't even sleep during this slow-motion trainwreck of teeth. Apparently these baby canines should have come out eight years ago. Oh, the pain. Woe is me and my decidedly unwise wisdom teeth.
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[Edited on May 10, 2006 12:53PM]