def. time for a new entry, thought about pasting in a myspace one, but decided that was just to lame-ass-lazy-lame even for me.
it's also time to cut back on the cigarettes since they seem to dumb me down so much. it shouldn't be hard, and i need the long chainsmoke hours for important things like guitar practice and my novel. (that novel is just the shit, and brewing in my brain for almost a year now, but i'm a crass dialog writer and don't know how to plod through action scenes. best to study a bit of phillip pullman... children's lit. i know, but fucking ideal
)
this thanksgiving was the worst weekend i can remember and yesterday i walked out of a hotel room, hands crossed on my chest like a corpse - pressed against my heart because it felt like something was streaming out in a thick black flood. Of course love is in my head, but when you stop loving someone you feel it in your chest. So i walked down the hallway with my mouth open and my eyes closed, sobbing i think, but not making any noise or tears, and picturing that my ribs had opened a crack and bats were screeching out the dank, dripping, tar-filled cave that couldn't hold life and love a second longer. gothic, but then, i'm irish, and when you stop loving one of your parents, it's a genuinely dramatic ordeal.
and i still love you, suicide girls, despite the site changes and annoyingly ADHD set additions. i love tits and lengthy rants and especially miss Manko and the little escape from depression these things offer.
it's also time to cut back on the cigarettes since they seem to dumb me down so much. it shouldn't be hard, and i need the long chainsmoke hours for important things like guitar practice and my novel. (that novel is just the shit, and brewing in my brain for almost a year now, but i'm a crass dialog writer and don't know how to plod through action scenes. best to study a bit of phillip pullman... children's lit. i know, but fucking ideal
)
this thanksgiving was the worst weekend i can remember and yesterday i walked out of a hotel room, hands crossed on my chest like a corpse - pressed against my heart because it felt like something was streaming out in a thick black flood. Of course love is in my head, but when you stop loving someone you feel it in your chest. So i walked down the hallway with my mouth open and my eyes closed, sobbing i think, but not making any noise or tears, and picturing that my ribs had opened a crack and bats were screeching out the dank, dripping, tar-filled cave that couldn't hold life and love a second longer. gothic, but then, i'm irish, and when you stop loving one of your parents, it's a genuinely dramatic ordeal.
and i still love you, suicide girls, despite the site changes and annoyingly ADHD set additions. i love tits and lengthy rants and especially miss Manko and the little escape from depression these things offer.
kathleen:
that was extremely descriptive for a jounal entry. i have no doubt that your novel will be great. and i second disliking the site changes but shit happens.