we all say, "don't want to be alone" we wear the same clothes, cause we feel the same...
I located a pair of white converse hightops and found that they still fit. I would wear them, except that they make me look like I'm 18. I shouldn't care, should I?
And I hate hate hate my new haircut. Oh well, it will grow out.
Today was a relatively drama-free day where I straightened up the ol' downstairs apartment, vacuuming out the dust bunnies, and cleaning the carpet. The problem was that humidity plus dust bunnies equals sneezing and nausea...damn my allergies. I still ich. *scratch scratch*
And I found a copy of "Parklife" by Blur...which is still their best album...I don't care what you say.
Seriously, though...like with all good art, you can lay it aside for a while, then pick it back up and notice that it has a whole different resonance than it did the last time you experienced it.
As for me, one lyric sticks out...as I have arrived on my mid-twenties crisis full bore. Halfway to thirty and where the fuck do I go now...
sex on the TV/everybody's at it/and the mind gets dirty/as you get closer to thirty
Thirty scares me to death. I'll be twenty-five in October, and I'm already thinking about wearing my black shroud. Admittedly, this attitude was not helped by phoning a girlfriend, who told me that, "once you get past twenty-one", you might as well not even life". Thanks.
What scares me even more is that I'm four years away from the oft-reviled ten year high school anniversary. Do I really want to go? What would I say to the majority of the men, who are now probably married, working at the bank, and complete with horrible jokes and fat, tick-like wives? Or, the women who have popped out 2.5 kids, and become good little wifeys, who work on their real-estate to suppliment the income?
I'm tempted to say..."Hi. I fuck boys and girls both...and wear women's knickers. I've never been married, but I have had a lot more exciting life than you ever will. Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm going to go get very drunk."
I located a pair of white converse hightops and found that they still fit. I would wear them, except that they make me look like I'm 18. I shouldn't care, should I?
And I hate hate hate my new haircut. Oh well, it will grow out.
Today was a relatively drama-free day where I straightened up the ol' downstairs apartment, vacuuming out the dust bunnies, and cleaning the carpet. The problem was that humidity plus dust bunnies equals sneezing and nausea...damn my allergies. I still ich. *scratch scratch*
And I found a copy of "Parklife" by Blur...which is still their best album...I don't care what you say.
Seriously, though...like with all good art, you can lay it aside for a while, then pick it back up and notice that it has a whole different resonance than it did the last time you experienced it.
As for me, one lyric sticks out...as I have arrived on my mid-twenties crisis full bore. Halfway to thirty and where the fuck do I go now...
sex on the TV/everybody's at it/and the mind gets dirty/as you get closer to thirty
Thirty scares me to death. I'll be twenty-five in October, and I'm already thinking about wearing my black shroud. Admittedly, this attitude was not helped by phoning a girlfriend, who told me that, "once you get past twenty-one", you might as well not even life". Thanks.
What scares me even more is that I'm four years away from the oft-reviled ten year high school anniversary. Do I really want to go? What would I say to the majority of the men, who are now probably married, working at the bank, and complete with horrible jokes and fat, tick-like wives? Or, the women who have popped out 2.5 kids, and become good little wifeys, who work on their real-estate to suppliment the income?
I'm tempted to say..."Hi. I fuck boys and girls both...and wear women's knickers. I've never been married, but I have had a lot more exciting life than you ever will. Now, if you'll excuse me...I'm going to go get very drunk."
In response to your entry, I feel your 30-pain. I'm 21 and I'm fearing it. Haha. Really, I'm more fearing real world adult things. It just seems to me that things go downhill from here. You acquire real jobs with real people who are aiming to become "The American". These are the best days of our lives, you know? We can still say, "Fuck the American Dream" and not have to fight it. But then...who says we have to give that thought up? I think as long as we make sure to find the people like us, who are NOT desiring the American Dream, we'll be alright. We just have to believe they're out there. And hey...all of the anti-American-Dream types can't all give in to it, can they? We've got to have a following out there somewhere...first, we've gotta get out of the Bible Belt.
"My, you are a dyke", I said.
She laughed.
I could just imagine life with her as a girlfriend. Or should I say, boyfriend. I'd be the woman, off to the mall to get my nails done, while she worked at the table saw. *BRRRRRRR*
We used to go shopping at Layne Bryant together, or as she called it "The fat girl store." I shuddered at the piles of massive XXXXXL thongs...hoping upon hoping that one day I don't swell up like a balloon. I know looks don't last forever, but maybe I can stay reasonably attractive.
I went to a conference and ended up becoming fast friends with a female...my friend J from Detroit thought we were fucking each other.
As I said to his then-girlfriend later..."C'mon. We were like two giggling girls."
And I admit it. I am a giggling girl...gossipy and talkative as hell. And I look at yearbooks with other women and talk nasty about people. I mean, what are yearbooks for, after all?
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From a friend, N. I have heard speculation that Nick Drake might've been queer.To me, there's no question that he was. He lived his life the way I have lived mine, with a sense of romantic pessimism and poetic diction. When I was 16, 17, 18...I was consumed with a passion to have relationships. I believed that if I could just wrap myself up in one or two then all my problems would be solved. And then I put aside my pathological shyness, something Drake couldn't ever manage to do, and I had them. And I believed that if I simply had sex with enough people, then all my problems would be solved.
But in many ways, having sex with lots of people just made me better able to have more sex with more people. It increased my charisma and my self-confidence to some extent, but it created a lot of problems...most of it totally needless drama.
I can't say that I want a boring life, because I loathe boredom and crave stimulation.
My problem is that I never do anything halfway. And excess is something I plunged headlong into. Never content to have sex discreetly or infrequently, it's something I've used as a drug. And flaunted it...flaunted my addiction to the orgasm. Mostly because I didn't have to be alone during the process of love-making. During that brief spell, I felt like I was part of some interconnected whole...and I could shut my mind off, experience ego death, and become one with the universe. I don't care what The Bible says... Orgasm is the end and the beginning. It is the moment where space and time cease to matter.
Not have to let my incredible sense of always having to know the most minute part of everything take over and destroy the moment.
On an unrelated issue...why is it that you women feel compelled to hide the fact that you gape at crotch? I know I've posed this once already, but I noticed a very obvious example of this on a TV interview. A good looking woman, swigging a beer with this, I-know-I'm-gorgeous, head-held-high moxie was obviously leering at a man's crotch. I mean, c'mon...hetero/bi guys do it with breasts...we don't mean to, but we at least don't make pretenses that we're not. And queer men leer at my package all the time...mostly because I sometimes wear tight jeans to get attention. It's okay, ladies...you can look...and we will appreciate it.
There's a sense of such coyness with female sexual expression. I've always appreciated friends like da Holly, who will shoot straight with me.
I was all paranoid about my inherent lack of heterosexuality and Holly, a Woosta native, told me the truth.
"You're normal, dude. Women are turned on by androgenous guys...but they don't let on because they don't want to make their men uncomfortable."
What does that say about us, though? I mean, considering the war my parents constantly wage with each other, you'd wonder why the sexes even pair up at all. Ideally, you'd think that beer-swigging, sports-loving, car-craving boys would all be in each others pants, grunting and making race car noises during the process...their jingling, overfilled car-keying clinking in time. And you'd think all girly-girls, fresh from their dual pedicure/manicures, their $300 shopping sprees, and epileptic seizures of glitter would all pair up in one entanglement of hairspray, overpriced beauty care products, needless drama, and gossip. Sounds like some lesbian orgies I have heard about, but I digress.
I miss da Holly. When I get some more money I'll go see her again. She grabbed herself a very passive boy that she could control, last I had heard. She is very street-wise, and authoritarian...occasionally bitchy and bossy, but up front. And she forgave me for waking her up at 3 am, trying to seduce her by running my fingers through her hair. She just had such nice, straight, jet black hair...and I coveted it for my own.
And she also told me something that has resonated with me..."You're just like my ex...you're going through your mid-twenties crisis."
And I am...once I was filled with teenaged exuberence...I'm-going-to-change-the-world-by-gum-by-gosh-by-gee...and isn't life swell? No longer. I don't know what I believe much anymore...but I'm know I can't plug the gap with the sort of meaningless sex, empty relationships, and drugs that I once thought were the antidote. I don't know what works, but I do know what doesn't.